


And Every Story Must Grow Old

by thispieceofmind



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, and harry is a pessimistic fuck, and louis is bright and sunny and in everyone's face in a good way, and niall's a good friend, and zayn and liam are happily dating on the sideline, harry likes flowers and books, louis likes harry, they're both artists, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispieceofmind/pseuds/thispieceofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's got more on his mind than he's comfortable saying, and Louis has nothing to hold back. Louis is brighter than the sun, and it shows in everything he does. Harry thinks he shows nothing at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Um, this is my first chaptered fic in a while, and I'm really looking forward to it. So, hi?

There are unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar features. He is thankful that there are name tags that everyone has to pin to their shirts to identify themselves, for in any other circumstance Harry would be completely lost and utterly frazzled with all of the faces that he would see, but possibly never have a name to match them to. They would come and go in his life without even having more than an adjective to describe them, like “ginger” or “short”. But maybe these people are supposed to be remembered because everyone has a brightly colored label pinned to their chest, and Harry’s is blue and orange. He personally would have never put those colors together, but it says his name, and he’s supposed to, so he does. 

There’s a dingy old pick up truck parked in the grass, and there are easels under and stacks of canvases and two, messy buckets of oil paints that have splatters of colors on them. It makes Harry shift a little, how disorganized it is, but everyone is making small talk and they’re smiling, and there’s only about ten of them, but it’s nice enough, Harry thinks, no matter how much he doesn’t want to be here. 

It wasn’t really his decision, to come out on a Saturday to an empty field with a bunch of strangers and even more easels, but his mum demanded he get out more, and he hates disappointing her. She never did any wrong, so he came – with reluctance, but he came. 

He fiddles with the end of his black t-shirt and stares down at his jeans that are covered in paint streaks. He wonders why they don’t bother him like anything else would. Maybe because it was intentional, the way he smears paint on them, but still. They’re a mess. He lifts his head and listens to a woman discuss why they were here. Harry already knows, obviously; he wouldn’t have agreed to going without being aware of what he was getting himself into, but the woman introduces herself as Lily and speaks with a soft voice, but happy. So he listens to her explain about the “interpretation” class they’re in, where they will travel within thirty minutes of town and paint what they see each week for four hours. There’s no instruction, so it’s not even really a class, but they can play music from the dock that sits on the back of the truck, and that’s it. It’s a simple concept, and Harry guesses he likes it well enough, but he’s not an interpreter. But he’s doing what his mum wants and if this is going to make her happy, well, it’s better than having two of them sad, yeah? 

Lily sets up easels and tables for them, and it’s quiet until she plugs in an iPod, and people take that as a cue to start small talk between them. He wanders to an easel that’s facing a position he likes, and then he stares. He stares at the flowering field in the early bits of spring. And he’s not sure how long he stares, but he stares until he finally realizes that there’s someone at the easel next to him, and he’s started to hum to the song that’s playing. He snaps out of his trance and tries to at least memorize some of the image of the field that’s ingrained into his mind. He wonders how long it will be until that image leaves him. 

He watches the boy next to him paint, too. He’s already got colors mixed, and they’re brighter than what Harry sees, but he supposes that this is one of those moments where people see things differently, and he thinks that this is what interpretation is all about. So he watches the boy for just a moment longer, because he doesn’t want to seem creepy or anything, but he admires the way his fringe falls into his eyes and theres paint streaks on his sweats just like Harry’s jeans. He’s got hair that looks caramel smooth, and it looks like all of the sunlight is channeled on him because he is incredibly bright. His hair glints of rays of sun and his arms are endless bronze. He wonders if everything is attracted to him like the sunlight is, like he is the flower and everyone else are the bees. But then he’s turning back to his own work because he needs to zoom in on the pouty flower that he doesn’t remember the name of, but it’s purple and perky, but its petals face down, and Harry thinks it’s beautiful; he wants to capture it forever. 

And then he draws. He draws with the simple tip of a regular, yellow, number two pencil, and it has to be perfect because if this is going to last forever, it’s not going to last in a life of imperfections. It takes him so long to get it right, the shapes and the grass behind it, and he forces himself to not let his mistakes get to his head and to just focus on the nice music coming from the truck and his comfy jeans. And it’s probably an hour later when he’s just nearly finished when there’s a voice down his neck exclaiming, “Mate! You should be painting by now.” 

Harry turns in his seat, and the pretty boy who was sitting next to him now has his face in very close proximity to Harry’s, so he narrows his eyes a little because he should’ve seen this coming. This is the reason why he likes his own garden and his shed and his books. Everything there is private and quiet and there is no one there to pick him up and then shatter him like glass. He likes his little bubble because it is what saves him from himself. Harry glances down at his pink and yellow name tag that reads _Louis_ , and he regrets it, because giving something a name makes it real. He clears his throat a little and checks his hands before shaking out his hair and looking into clear blue eyes that sparkle with something that he thinks might be mischief, or maybe admiration. He’s not too sure. “It’s not perfect yet. I’m not ready to paint.” 

Louis’ eyes sparkle with something else, and Harry’s nearly positive that it’s curiosity. He hopes it’s not judgement. “Are you going to paint at all?” 

Harry shrugs and runs a finger tip along the pencil line on his canvas. “Maybe.” He doesn’t know. If it’s not good, he won’t paint it. It’s a virtue he’s lived by for god knows how long, and it’s a curse and a blessing all at once. 

Louis looks at the pouty flower on Harry’s canvas and places a hand on Harry’s shoulder that’s warm and comforting and not at all like a stranger would. His face is kind, still. “We’re only here for four hours, y’know,” he says, and it’s still not judging or forceful. Harry thinks that it’s a warning, more of. But Harry knows. He waits for Louis to continue. “Soon enough the lighting is going to change, and it’s going to be all fucked up.” 

Harry shrugs again, and Louis moves his hand. “Well, I’ll just have a sketch then.” That’s happened to him more times than he can remember, and it’s awful, it really is. He hates it when he’s found something so beautiful, so irrevocably exquisite, but he doesn’t get it the way he wants. And it not the way he wants, it’s image will die, and Harry will be left with an lightly sketched canvas and something else that has left him. 

“Don’t you want to capture this, though? It’s beautiful,” Louis exclaims, and both of their eyes watch the field in the broad daylight, and of course Harry wants to capture it, but doing it justice is what makes it worthwhile. 

“Of course I do.” Harry clears his throat again, and he stares at his canvas because he can’t bare to look into this guy’s eyes. He doesn’t know him, but he has the urge to tell tell tell. “I paint flowers so they will not die, Louis, and if I paint them with the imperfections that aren’t natural, they are bound to wilt on the canvas. Everything leaves eventually, and this – this wont.” Louis doesn’t say anything, and Harry sighs. He’s already said too much, so he backtracks from his the word vomit he had just splayed over his canvas and mutters quietly, “It’ll just be a drawing, then.” 

And Harry guesses that Louis has a persistence to him, and he can’t decide if it’s going to be thrilling and engaging, or invasive and irritating. He asks, “But what about color? It’s all about color.” Harry briefly looks at his palette, but not his canvas, because he knows that it will be make his stomach churn. Art can do that to him. There are an explosion of colors splattering it, and Harry is white. Everything is white. His canvas, his palette, probably the pale skin of his cheeks. 

Harry shakes his head and taps his pencil on the easel. “You obviously don’t understand.” And he doesn’t mean to be rude, but he doesn’t know how to explain without sounding crazy. He is crazy, he thinks. 

Louis looks at Harry for a while longer, and then at his canvas and the field and at his empty palette. He sits down at his own easel and says quietly, “You’re right. I don’t understand at all.” 

Harry doesn’t let himself wonder even if he wants to. 

*** 

Harry likes the flowers because of their simple kind of beauty. He likes their simplicity, even though they manage to carry this delicate intricacy at the same time. He likes how no two are alike and he likes that he can capture them and all their specialness. He likes that he can capture them and they won’t ever leave the canvas in all of their beauty even if one day they decide to wilt. He paints them for just those reasons, and sitting in the field on that day with a boy with messy trousers at his side, well, he gets things done. He gets things done because he takes his focus off of everything else because before he had wiped his mind, it was whirring with a million thoughts and questions unanswered. 

But now he’s in control, detail brush in had as he recreates the smooth petals and sharp leaves of a flower so violet and evergreen. It’s different, working like this, than he does usually, because Harry is used to his own garden and his own shed that’s lined with books and houses a worn couch and a big computer and art supplies that are so intricately organized that he can’t misplace a thing. But here everything is freeform and peaceful, wind tussling their hair and easels spread out amongst people who he does not know and who he does not want to remember. Lily and Louis already have names to him, though, and he knows that once they’re in they can only go out. 

Harry had always been a culprit to social anxiety, really. Maybe it was because in primary school he only had one friend and every day he would come home with worries and fears that his mum didn’t quite understand. So when he was home schooled, that friend – Niall – was still the only one he had, and the problems only grew until he was a jumbled mess of anxiety and stress and loneliness. It’s a crippling, constant fear. He loathes it. 

Harry doesn’t like being alone, though. It’s a choice, yes, but he does nothing about his solitary life. It’s turned into the fear of not being liked, for him, the fear or rejection and abandonment. He knows that everything that comes must go, so he’s stopped letting people in if he knows the only way is out. So he paints flowers because they will not die on canvas. They will not leave or wilt or shrivel once they are depicted. 

And he paints in that field because he thinks that maybe he can capture a memory in a painting, too, and if Louis is going to come in, he’s at least going to have a painting to remember him by when he goes out. 

*** 

He has felt eyes on him for the past forty-five minutes, and it’s really starting to get to him. He can’t focus with eyes trained on his hands and on his canvas. He clenches his free fist and takes a deep breath, and he only has details left to do, and that shouldn’t be _hard_ , but Louis is watching him and it’s pushing the discomfort to the limit. He clenches his teeth while blue eyes continue to burn holes into him, so he turns in his fold out chair and snaps, “What?” 

And Louis starts laughing, the bastard. He giggles all sweet and Harry can’t be mad, but he seems so carefree and lax in that moment. He runs a gentle hand through his hair and says, “I like to watch people paint.” His casualness makes Harry want to scream a little. He’s not innocent; he knows what he’s doing, but he’s so loose and calm. It almost aggravates him, but Harry thinks he’s a real artist, the kind people talk about, painting what they see and what they want and how they feel. Harry wishes he was that kind of artist, but he doesn’t let himself get mad at Louis. He’s too good. He’s – charming. 

“Well, it’s distracting,” Harry growls, and he’s not mad, he’s not, but he still wants to fucking finish. 

“Sorry,” Louis murmurs, and he’s obviously not too sorry because his eyes have yet to peal away from the flower that is forming on Harry’s canvas that was white not too long ago. But there’s a breath down Harry’s neck again, and he tries not to shiver. A hand walks up his arm and sits on his shoulder, and he hears a deep intake of breath followed by a heavy exhale. “Don’t know how the bloody fuck you did that though, mate.” 

“Did what?” Harry asks. He taps the metal bit of his brush on the easel, looking at all the nicks and streaks of paints and carvings into the wood there are just so he doesn’t have to meet Louis’ eye. 

“That flower! It’s brilliant, Harry, really. I’ve not seen talent like that in a while. It doesn’t even look like a painting. You’re amazing. I just paint lines and colors and stuff ‘cause it’s fun.” 

He certainly sounds like an artist, Harry thinks. 

And Harry doesn’t look at Louis’ canvas. He won’t until he’s finished, or maybe not at all, because how other people see things compared to how he sees things scares him sometimes, to know that he’s a little – a little different. But he wipes a hand on his jeans and fixes his hair because he’s bashful and tries not to squirm at the compliment. He’s not used them. “Erm,” he starts (not very well, at that), “Thank you, Louis. I’m glad you like it. I’ve just got to finish now, so–” And he stops talking because he’ll probably embarrass himself or say something mean, so Louis turns away and Harry lets out a breath. 

When he finishes, everyone’s just starting to clean up, and he guesses he likes his purple flower well enough, and that’s good to him, because sometimes he hates what he does. Sometimes he’d rather see the flower dead because he feels like he doesn’t do it justice at all. Sometimes he wishes he had just plucked it and pressed it in his book so he could keep it dried forever. 

But this painting is nice because it’s the first of many with these people who are going to have to mean something to him, and he painted it while inquisitive blue eyes that are still a mystery were watching him. So he’s careful when he picks it up, and Louis bounds over to him at the end, when Harry’s just about to walk to the edge of the field to the parking lot. He doesn’t have a choice but to look down at Louis’ painting, because it’s _right there_ , and it’s instinct. 

It’s truly something else, though. Louis is abstract, and he is exactly what described before – lines and colors and smears everywhere. But it is the field in all of its glory, but it’s Louis too, it’s his energy and his curiosity, it’s right in your face. And Harry is endlessly jealous already, because Louis’ painting is himself, and Harry’s is just a photocopy. 

He’s got a goofy smile on his face with bright eyes and crinkles and laugh lines, and he says to Harry, “So? What do you think? I know it’s not much; like I said, a lot of lines and smudges, but art is fun. You gettin’ the field vibes?” 

Harry stares, for a while longer. He wants to say _it’s very you_ , but he doesn’t really know Louis at all. “It’s lovely,” he murmurs, and it’s honest. Everyone is leaving the field. “It seems very... personal. I like it quite a lot.” 

“Really?” Louis asks, and somehow, his smile grows wider. Harry nods. “I’m glad. I quite like this one, too. I wonder if Daisy will. She’s always been a sucker for flowers.” And Harry thinks that’s his cue to ask who Daisy is, but he won’t, because he doesn’t want another person. So he doesn’t. Louis’ smile doesn’t fade though. “Well, I’ve got to go anyway, Harry. It was nice meeting you; you’ve got a nice smile and good eyes for painting and for looking at. I’ll see you next week, then?” 

He says it all so quickly that Harry doesn’t have a chance to interpret it, so he’s left standing alone with a hollow painting and reeling mind, so the only thing that hears him say, “Bye, Louis,” is his purple, pouty flower that was watched by bright blue eyes. He feels a little bit like a bee. 

It’s the buzzing in his pocket that grabs his attention, and he snaps out of it. He trudges to the car and tells his mum all about it, and it’s her smile that makes it worth it, even though he sugarcoats everything a little, like the people were wonderful and the painting was fun and everything was just lovely, but it’s not all lies and it’s not all truths so he figures he is doing no harm. 

But he goes home and thinks, _who is Harry?_

And later, he thinks, _it doesn’t matter who Harry is. Who cares if something good happens to Harry! Harry is one in seven billion who will one day die like the rest who are unknown by most._

So later, he doesn’t care too much about who Harry is, he just sits and looks at his old, characterless paintings, but it doesn’t stop him from wondering who _Louis_ is, and if maybe he has his old paintings stacked and he looks at them, too. Or if he has messy brushes or a special place where he paints or if he gives his art to people or if those people can read his eyes unlike Harry. Harry thinks that maybe Louis would look at his paintings with assurance, because Louis’ paintings are Louis. 

Harry’s are no one. 

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii guys I'm back! This chapter was supposed to be _longer_ , but fate doesn't love me, so it turned out more or less the same length. I just tried to roll with it, but I really do hope you enjoy it.

They’re going to a lake, this week, and Harry really, really doesn’t want to go back. He just wants to forget and read his books like he’s been doing all week because in a book everyone’s a character, and they don’t exist at all, anyway. He wants to curl up on his couch and get lost in a world that isn’t his because in his world everything is real and tangible, and it’s all alive and breathing or growing and things like that die, and Harry really does not like to think about death. Coincidentally – or not, really – it tends to consume at least forty percent of his thoughts. He thinks he might be plagued, and that is why he likes the Head and the Heart because they sing about getting _lost in my mind_ , and he believes that’s fairly accurate. 

So he listens and he reads until there’s a knock on the door of his shed that means it’s time to go, and Harry really, really, doesn’t like going. But he remembers that this isn’t for him, it’s for his mum. And on the car ride there he sees all the early spring trees passing in blurs of green and brown and he tries not to think how this is _supposed_ to be for him. 

*** 

When he gets there, his eyes immediately fall to Louis because he’s _familiar_ and he has a _significance_ (whether Harry wants him to or not, it’s inevitable) and he meets Harry’s eye like he can feel it, and he waves all big and smiles even bigger. And Harry can’t help himself – Louis is all crinkly-eyed and kind of like the sun, he’s so bright – so Harry lifts a hand and grins back a little, small and bashful, so his curls fall in his eyes. He looks away and gets a tray table and an easel, and he sets up next to Louis who takes the easel from under his arms and unfolds it for him. Harry murmurs his thanks quietly, and he’s about to go get a canvas and a palette, but that warm hand is on his shoulder again, so he turns, and Louis is looking at him with those eyes, and they’re glimmering like the lake they’re stood near, and they’re bright, stunningly so. Harry doesn’t think he’d ever be able to capture something so beautiful, eyelashes casting shadows on his high cheekbones, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to forget them either. He doesn’t want to. 

Louis looks at him, like a scan, almost, and he pokes at Harry’s arm. “Smile,” he says. 

Harry frowns. “No,” he replies, just to spite him. He doesn’t have that much of a reason to not smile, but he’s curious to see how Louis reacts to things. He’s foreign still. 

“ _Smile_ ,” Louis whines, pinching Harry’s cheeks in an attempt to turn them upright. “C’mon, Harry, think of endless mounds of candy floss.” 

Harry’s brow furrows, and he guesses that Louis is one for spontaneity; it seems to fit what little he knows of his personality, anyway. “Candy floss?” he questions. He still isn’t smiling. 

Louis drops his hands and looks completely shellshocked. “Yes! Doesn’t everyone like candy floss? I thought that was an everyone thing. Jesus, what has happened to children!” Harry laughs then, at Louis’ high voice, just his tone that he can’t quite place but does quite like. And he smiles all big, a grin spreading across his cheeks before he can prevent it, and Louis’ breath is hitching in front of him. “Well, fuck me,” Louis starts, “you have dimples. That’s final; I’m keeping you.” 

And Harry thinks that that’s probably not going to go over very well, but he stares at his shoes where his toes are turned in and blushes pink like the flowers that they saw in the field last week, and Louis gently brushes his arm as he turns. 

Harry’s small blushes and giggles don’t stay with him though, because Louis won’t _shut up_. He spends the first half hour as Harry sketches prattling random things off about the sky being extra blue and cotton candy being the future and _why_ the sky is blue and that hey, cotton candy can be blue, too. And maybe Harry would have been interested in half of those things if he wasn’t trying to draw. He has never been one for multitasking, and Louis doesn’t exactly have an off button, nor a muffler, so he spends his time trying to drone him out, yet also trying not to seem like a complete prick when a fluttering glance is sent his with bright eyes and long eyelashes. 

“Louis,” Harry interrupts, and he thinks he’s talking about his painting, but he just couldn’t focus enough without messing up his sketch and having to erase the whole thing. 

“Hm?” Louis says cheerily, and his brightness seems almost contagious, but to Harry it’s blinding. 

“Can you like, be quiet for a little?” Harry’s trying not to snap, he really is, but drawing is always the hardest part for him, so maybe when he gets through that he can talk about the water with him, and definitely not how it glistens like Louis’ eyes. Definitely not how it’s kind of beautiful, and not how Louis is kind of beautiful, too. Definitely not. 

Louis looks at him with kind eyes, and Harry wonders how he still has a smile on his face. He turns back to his palette where he’s mixing a blue far to vibrant to be the color of the sky or the water – Harry thinks it suits him, though, – as he speaks. “Oh, yeah, sorry. Mum and Liam tell me I talk too much, anyway.” He laughs. “I just like to let things out while I paint because sometimes there’s an expression or a sentence or just _something_ , I dunno, that inspires you and makes you go – wow! I should paint about that. So, I just like to talk incase I find inspiration in unexpected places. I’ll shut up now, probably sound like a prat.” 

Harry tightens his grip on his pencil as he perfects the horizon line where it rises and dips with hills, and silently wishes he could be that good of a damn artist. He nods when he’s done, quietly says thank you, and draws exactly what he sees, line for line, shape for shape, until he thinks it’s perfect. Only then does he take in the silence that has fallen between him and Louis and just listens to the soft music coming from the back of the pick up truck with the cracking blue paint and the lapping of the water at the shoreline. He listens as he mixes as a murky blue for the water of the lake, and decides he can talk now. He’s just mixing – mixing is easy. 

“Hey, Lou?” he says. 

“Yeah?” Louis responds, kind of noncommittally because he’s got his tongue poking out between his lips as he paints, using the finest of detail brushes. Harry can’t see what he’s doing, but he assumes it’s important, so he waits until Louis pulls back from where he was leaned so close to his canvas until he speaks again. Louis has a broad smile as he tips his chair back onto two legs and looks in Harry’s direction. “What’s up, Harry?” 

“I’m just saying, you can talk now... if you want.” 

“Oh, sure. What do you want to talk about?” he exclaims, and he’s still so fucking cheery; it makes Harry want to know all of his secrets. He wants to know how he looks at life and why he sees everything that way, and he stands to crack his back and he realizes that Louis looks at life upside down. Or, when he paints lakes he does. His painting is completely upside down and the vibrancy is turned up tenfold, but it’s stunning, and once again, completely Louis. He turns in his seat to get a better look at Harry’s reaction. “What do you think?” he asks, radiant and sunny. 

Harry pauses for a moment, running a hand through his hair and thinking of a word to describe it. He uses a word that he would describe Louis, too. “It’s bright. I like it. It’s a little overpowering, but like, in a good way? If that makes sense? Like, it’s overwhelming but so much that you don’t want to look away. It’s different, that’s for sure.” 

Louis smiles. “Wicked. I just thought it’d be fun to paint upside down without turning my canvas upside down afterward. And I’m not painting from a picture reference, so I couldn’t do that, either. I just like a challenge.” 

_I hate you_ , Harry wants to say. Because how can he just – how can he do all of this? Harry wants to tear him apart. He wants to understand everything, but at the same time he doesn’t want to know anymore than he already does because Louis is a trap that isn’t worth falling into. He’s a heartache waiting to happen and well– he doesn’t really want that at the moment. Or ever. 

But he sits back down and starts to mix more colors, and Louis asks him, “What do you want to talk about?” 

“Dunno,” Harry murmurs. He looks up from his palette, and thinks that maybe if he takes in what’s around him he’ll get _inspired_ , like Louis. He stares at the glistening lake and doesn’t think there’s anything more inspirational around them (people aside, but Harry wouldn’t say _let’s talk about you_. He would get irrationally angry for reasons he could not explain.). “Can we talk about the water?” he asks, and it truly is beautiful, sunlight glinting off shiny, deep blue, life floating around it even though it’s still chilly in the early beats of April. Louis smiles softly, and Harry peels his glance away from him to focus. If he’s going to multitask, he’s going to do it right. 

“If you’d like.” 

Neither of them say anything for a while, because they’re painting and scratching at the oily wax paper of their palettes and breathing in the scents of clean air and a little bit of oil paints. Harry’s eyes are in constant motion, from the lake to his brush to his canvas and back again, making sure colors are right and shadows are right and everything looks right. He doesn’t look at Louis though, in all of his laid back glory and bright colors and masterpiece that be ridiculous but is instead stunning. 

“I’ve always loved water,” and it’s Louis who speaks first, again. “Mum used to take me and my sisters down to the sea every summer. Stopped going, though. M’not sure why. But I would play in it for hours, even when I was freezing my bollocks off. I just always thought it was beautiful, the color, the way you could stare at it like it was never ending, until it hit the sky and they turned into one big thing of unknown. I’ve always liked mystery. Kind of why I like you. You’re a mystery, Harry.”  

Harry stops his brush where it’s coloring the sky baby blue. He leans forward, putting his brush on the easel and scanning Louis’ face where he’s gently scraping a blob of paint from his palette and mixing it around again to get the colors to blend into something entirely different from what they originally were. “A mystery?” Harry asks. 

“Well, yeah,” Louis says, and he speaks as though it’s the most obvious thing. Harry doesn’t understand. “Normally, when you meet someone and spend four hours with them, you know a lot of things about them by the end, don’t you? With you, I know your first name – which really, you didn’t tell me, your name tag did – and that you paint flowers so they won’t die. That’s not much, would you say? I’d call that mysterious.” 

Harry chuckles a little, but he’s not sure why. He purses his lips as he picks up his brush again. “I guess we have different definitions of mystery, then,” Harry murmurs because to him Louis is the mystery – he’s an enigma of color and smudges that Harry thinks is an endless maze that only leads to more layers of _person_. 

“Probably,” Louis agrees, nodding a little. “I think everyone would, though.” There’s another pregnant pause that lasts a little longer than the previous as Harry paints grasses after he’s cleaned his brush with turpentine and paper towels. “Would you be willing to tell me about yourself then?” 

Harry laughs. “If you want to know.” 

“I’m curious!” Louis exclaims, and Harry has gathered that – just from everything he is and how his eyes light up and his genuine interest in everything. Harry thinks Louis must know a million stories because of all the questions he’s probably asked in his lifetime and how personable he is, how many friends he’s made and everything they’ve shared with him, too. 

“What do you want to know?” 

“Tell me your name,” Louis says. “We’ll start there, and that’s all I need, for now.” 

“Harry Styles,” Harry says, and he’s laughing just a little, because Louis is _weird_ , and it’s almost aggravating how sure of himself he is, how fine he is with what he’s doing even though he doesn’t know where he’s going. Even if he’s diving head first into a mystery. 

“And I’m Louis Tomlinson, it’s a pleasure to not meet you,” Louis exclaims, and he sticks out a paint covered hand anyway, and Harry grasps tight and shakes it, and then it’s quiet again. 

Harry channels everything into painting, after that, and he admires the water because it’s so beautiful. He likes water because it’s literally everything. Water is eternal, and capturing it is different that capturing a flower because water doesn’t die. Water is forever. 

He drags his hands though his hair while he paints, and he’s sure there’s blue in there somewhere, and there’s probably paint on his face, too, because he can’t seem to stop touching himself. He does it every time though; he’s used to it. He gets frustrated at a few moments, trying to do everything he can to get this lake right, the glimmer perfect before the sun changes or a cloud blocks the light and everything is ruined. And he clenches his hands around his brush more often because Louis is next to him, casual, painting with his canvas on his legs at one point, getting his sweats even more painty. He feels his glance, sometimes, too, but he doesn’t dare look up to meet it because then he’ll be thrown out of his concentration. 

It happens eventually, though, when Louis stands up and trails a hand up his arm until it’s resting gently on his shoulder. His breathing is soft, and Harry assumes he’s waiting for Harry to start painting again. He doesn’t know why though, because Harry’s already told him it’s distracting. His thumb his making a windshield wiper patter on his shoulder, and Harry loses some of his tension from a touch. He doesn’t have a lot of people touching him. His mum will touch him, sometimes, and Niall, when he sees him. But Niall goes to school and his mum goes to work and Harry reads. So there’s not a lot of touching. But Louis is gentle, so he’s not going to tell him to stop. 

“You’re a fantastic artist, y’know, Harry,” Louis says finally, looking at the painting with unwavering eyes, a curious glance. And Harry doesn’t agree with that, he doesn’t agree with that at all. He’s a good painter, or a good drawer, but he’s not an artist. He doesn’t _create_. He just copies what he sees, and sometimes he simply feels like a robot. But he doesn’t object because now he’s curious to what Louis has to say for himself. 

“Yeah?” Harry asks, because he doesn’t have a lot of looking either. Not a lot of people see what he does, but there are all these people here who could walk over and look at any time they please. 

“Yeah...” Louis murmurs, but there’s something in his voice – almost hesitance, it’s more careful than he would be. “But I think you need to loosen up, Harry. Art’s not about being perfect; it’s about expressing yourself!” 

Harry almost growls as he violently shifts his shoulder, Louis’ hand flying off of him as he closes in on himself, almost involuntarily. “Well, maybe I express myself by being perfect,” he bites out, voice icy and full of malice. Louis steps back immediately, like the coldness in Harry’s voice is going to put out his light, his brightness. He sits back down carefully, and Harry closes his eyes and clenches tight, taking a deep breath so as to not panic. He does that sometimes – panic, when it feels like everything is closing in and there is no way out. That’s why he surrounds himself with what he chooses to, that way those few things, they can’t go, they won’t leave, and there will be no rubble to land on his head when his walls cave in, because nothing was there in the first place. 

He opens them to the still soft light of the day and the sparkling light on the lake that makes him still think of Louis even though it shouldn’t. Louis’ eyes still flit about him, he can feel it, he would see it if he turned his head, but he doesn’t meet them, he has no plans to, so he just paints. He takes everything he has and puts it into painting, closing off completely, numb to noise and movement and feeling only his paint brush and seeing only his canvas and the water. He makes little bottles and stuffs them with pieces of confetti that are colored with self-loathing and perfectionism. He wants to go to the sea like Louis said and throw those bottles into the rough, against the jetties so he never has to see them or feel them again, and sure as hell hopes they don’t wash up in China because he doesn’t want anyone else to feel that kind of pain either. 

He tries to focus on a character in one of the books back at his shed, the one he left splayed open on his couch, spine up, and thinks about their world because it’s so much simpler. Nothing is real there. Nothing leaves or goes because they are just words on a page. And he tries not to think about Louis or the flowers and how one day they’re going to leave, how they’re going to leave him all by himself like he’s always been. He doesn’t focus on how Louis is next to him living and breathing and doing, and he doesn’t focus on how the sun is going to set over the lake and soon enough that’ll be gone, too. He doesn’t focus on any of that. 

He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! Feedback is always appreciated, as usual. You can find me on tumblr at eroticlou. :*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I like this one. Enjoy, as always.

Harry wishes sometimes that he could freeze time, but the ivy would still grow so he could watch it. He wants to see it climb up the walls of his shed and inch across the dark roof. He wants to watch life progress in front of his eyes, not forget about something and only remember it again when something has changed. But he can’t, so it’s only after time that he notices that a patch on his stone shed has filled in. 

He’s sitting on the big brown couch, and he’s supposed to be doing the maths his mum gave him as work, but instead he’s waiting for the door to swing open with a book in his lap and Benjamin Francis Leftwich telling him about pictures. It’s not late, just five after three like always, when the door creaks and he’s clicking off the music with the little remote because he knows he wont be able to hear it over Niall’s voice anyway. He folds his bookmark into the pages before shutting his novel and letting it rest gently on the arm of the couch. 

“Niall,” he says softly. 

“Harry!” Niall booms. He’s not exactly one for quiet, nor holding back. Briefly, he thinks that he would get along with Louis. _Briefly_. “How are yah, mate?” He glances at the half done maths packet on Harry’s desk. “Maths not treating you too good?” He’s laughing lightly now, that warm, comforting, Niall laugh that Harry gropes for whenever he feels like he’s in the dark. 

Harry laughs quietly too. “I’m well enough. Maths is always kicking my arse. But I’m lazy and like books, what can I say.”  

Niall laughs again and flops down next to Harry on the couch. “I feel yah, mate, honest. Got a shit load of work this semester, not sure why. Spring fever’s sure kicking at everyone.” 

Harry smiles softly and moves his hair from his eyes. “Understand that, Ni. Literally all I’ve wanted to do is go outside. Rain’s coming Sunday though.” 

Niall’s smile doesn’t fade, and his eyes are bright. Briefly, Harry thinks, not as bright as Louis’. Certainly not as blue. Briefly. “Reckon it’s good for your flowers then, yeah?” 

Harry grins. “Should be.” He shakes his hair out again. “So other than work, school’s good, yeah?” 

“Yeah! Everyone’s good! I’ve – y’know. Busy. Sorry I’ve not been around at all! It’s been what, two weeks?”  

“It’s no big deal, honestly.” 

“But you’re my best mate, Haz. I at least owe it to you to stop by. Every week now, I promise.” Harry just keeps smiling his dimpled grin and waits for Niall to keep talking. “So?” Niall says, kicking off his shoes and tucking up his knees. “What’s been goin’ on? Something has to have happened in the past two weeks.” 

“Niall, I probably have the dullest life ever,” Harry mutters, monotonous. 

“Not true! You paint flowers, and you like – read and organize stuff.” 

Harry lets out a loud, booming laugh, but he claps his hands over his mouth to muffle the sound. “Niall, oh my god.” 

“It’s true!” Niall insists. 

“You’re right, you’re right,” Harry agrees through chuckles. 

“Has nothing really been going on?” 

Harry sighs. “No. You were right about that, too.” 

Niall snorts at himself. “That’s a first.” 

Harry smiles again, and he’s happy Niall decided to stop by, because he Niall never fails to make him smile with his light heart and loud laugh and general sense of carefreeness. There’s never any judgment with Niall. He never has to worry. Maybe it’s because he’s known Niall since he was ten and moved from Ireland, and maybe it’s because Niall didn’t judge him or leave him like he feared he would when Harry dropped out of school to be taught by his mum when he was fourteen. But maybe that’s just Niall, and he loves him for it. 

“So,” Niall says. “Spill! I need to be filled in on this, Haz.” 

“Erm, my mum signed me up for art class?” It comes out like a question. 

“Since when do you need teaching? You’re literally perfect.” 

Harry looks at his feet and turns his eyes at the compliment, but goes to explain. “Well like, it’s not so much a class? It’s kind of – they call it _interpretation_. Where we just go to different places with the same people and a bunch of easels and music and a supervisor, and we paint what we see for four hours. So, erm. It’s fun, I guess. My mum wanted me to do it, so I said I’d do it.” 

Niall looks at him warmly. “That’s good, Haz.” He pauses, and he looks like he’s thinking about something important. “Meet anyone nice?” he asks, and it’s hesitant, because he doesn’t know if Harry would talk to anyone. And that’s the thing about Niall. He knows, he understands, but he doesn’t change the way he acts around Harry. Every time he gets invited to a party, he’ll always ask Harry if he wants to go as a plus one. The answer is always the same, but it doesn’t stop Niall from giving him a clap on the shoulder or a sweet text and saying _maybe next time_. And yeah, Harry thinks, maybe next time. So when it comes to Harry, Niall is no different that he is around anyone else, even though when he was younger he didn’t get it. He didn’t get it straight away, why Harry dropped out of school. But at seventeen, they’ve had three a.m. heart to hearts, and well – he gets it. 

Harry blinks. “There’s a bloke,” he starts, but doesn’t finish because Niall’s sitting forward further against his knees and giving him excited eyes. 

“A bloke?” Niall teases. “Tell me more, I’m pumped now.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s not like _that_ ,” he mutters, even though it kind of is. Well, not really, but, Louis is – he’s pretty, and he’s nice, and kind of weird, and Harry likes him well enough, so. But it’s not. “He’s just a friend, I guess. His names Louis, and he paints really abstract but it’s really beautiful. I dunno, he’s fit, but, honest, Niall. It’s not like that and you know it’s never gonna be like that.” 

It’s true; Niall does know that. He knows that Harry looks at love like a deathtrap, because when you find that person that you truly love, that you never want to let go, it’s like an accident waiting to happen. It’s like they’re instants away from being ripped out of your life and having it hurt ten times more because of that _connection_. He hates the thought of it, especially because it’s not that he’s against falling in love. He thinks love could be beautiful, if it wasn’t so destructive at the same time. 

“S’he our age?” 

Harry pauses. “I– don’t know? I guess we never discussed. I think he’s older than us. Not sure though, that’s odd.”  

“Jesus, Haz. Eight hours with the lad and you’ve not even learnt his age.” 

“I know his last name!” Harry interjects. 

Niall just shakes his head and tips back further on the couch, soon to launch into the story about how his entire Chemistry class meows at the teacher when he’s turned towards the board just to piss him off. And Harry laughs his arse off and doesn’t think at all, doesn’t have a care in the world. It’s a few hours later when they’re both out of stories, and Niall is departing that he pauses at the door and asks him to a party for the next day, nodding at Harry’s gentle decline and murmuring something about next week with a smile. 

Harry is thankful for Niall. 

*** 

Harry has always liked the park. It reminds him of childhood and innocence and everything he wishes he still had. He can walk there, from his home, so he spends his time brushing the leaves with his fingertips and staring down at the sidewalk with too many cracks and the weeds that are just beginning to sprout up. It’s April, so all of the leaves are brightening and the first true flowers are starting to show. (Aside from the crocuses. Crocuses are always first, even through the snow.) Everything is brighter in the spring, though, seemingly happier, because it’s that first burst of light after the darkness that winter seems to settle upon people. He’s always liked April. 

(May is his favorite though, because May is before it’s too hot and when everything is warmed by the sun. It seems like everything is a breath of fresh air, in May. It’s true spring.) 

He thinks on his way there, and he tells himself not to, but it’s of blue eyes and loud voices and a soft touch on his shoulder. He’s almost come to accept the class, likes it, really, because Louis is obnoxious in a good way, and even though it’s not like _that_ , he likes him. He likes him a lot, irking ways aside, because he’s annoying a good way. He almost likes that Louis pries, because without diggers, he wouldn’t say anything at all. Maybe it’s good to speak up, sometimes. He’s not sure. He’s never really sure. 

When he’s at the park, Louis is already there, and he’s set up another easel next to him, and a smile spreads across his face, butterflies flutter in his stomach. He’s never had someone so caring. But he tries his best to ignore that feeling, that tingly feeling that’s annoying, really, so he walks over to Louis’ chair and places a hand on his shoulder just to see the reaction he can get out of him. He doesn’t fright at all though, just tips his head all the way back and smiles at Harry upside down. A pair of black glasses frame his face and his fringe falls in his eyes as he leans over the back of his chair. 

“For me?” Harry asks, and he drums his fingers on the metal of the other chair with his spare hand. 

“Of course, babe,” Louis says offhandedly, like it’s nothing, like everything is completely casual between them despite it being their third time meeting. “Sit, sit, I got you paints and everything.” 

Harry doesn’t know what to say, but he decides on something nerdy like he is and murmurs, “How chivalrous.” 

Louis leans up so he’s sitting properly and leans across Harry’s tray table so their noses are nearly brushing. “Chivalry never dies, Harold.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t pull out my chair.” 

Louis laughs, grin wide and eyes crinkling. “I’m sorry to disappoint, dearest. My chivalry only goes so far when there’s a park distracting me.” 

“Fair enough,” Harry rumbles, looking around, trying to find something to focus on so he can paint. He wants to paint something beautiful, and for a moment his mind jumps to _Louis_ , but he dispels the thought in an instant. They’re in a park to paint a park, and Harry surely can’t say to Louis that he wants to paint him because he’s beautiful. Or rather, he can, but he won’t. He lets the pause carry a beat further, though, before a memory flashes in his head like a bulb, and he turns his head to find Louis still looking at him, smile softer, but having gone nowhere. “Hey,” Harry starts. “I meant to ask, how old are you?” 

“Nineteen,” Louis responds easily, and he picks up his canvas as he props his legs up on the base of the easel and uses his knees as support. Harry briefly catches him drawing what looks like a trunk of a tree. “And yourself?”  

“Seventeen,” he says, slower. “Why aren’t you in uni?” 

Louis smiles. “I will be. M’taking a year off to help me mum. Dad left us last year, and she’s got a gaggle of girls to take care of, and education can happen whenever, y’know? I’ll go next year, everyone will be older, things will be easier.” 

Something soars in Harry’s chest, and he thinks it could be affection, but he’s not naming anything. How Louis manages to have a warm heart underneath a loud, bold persona he doesn’t understand. He wonders how many layers he can peel back of Louis, how many different sides he has. Ever the mystery he stays. “That’s sweet of you.” 

Louis shrugs, meeting Harry’s eye for just a second before glancing at the tree and then his canvas again. “Eh, it’s for the family. I love ‘em to bits, even if they can be a pain in the arse.” Louis jumps from one subject to the next, right back to Harry, pencil working dexterously across his canvas as he asks, “So, you in school, then?” 

Harry pauses. “Not... exactly?” 

“Do elaborate, Harold, I’m not made up of explanations to half-arsed responses.” 

Harry laughs, catches Louis’ eyes sparkling even though he’s glancing down. “I’m, erm, home schooled by my mum. I dropped out when I was fourteen because of, um, social anxiety, and stuff. It’s – complicated.” 

“Well, Harry, you don’t owe me any explanations, not if you don’t want to say. But home schooling is pretty sweet. Do you get to wake up whenever you want?” 

Harry laughs again, rubs the back of his head as he catches sight of a blossom on a branch that’s waning downward, close to his face in clear sight. He starts to sketch. “I mean, yeah? But I’m an early riser either way, so it’s a bit useless to me.”  

Louis clucks his tongue. “Shame on you, Harry Styles. What a waste of vital hours of beautiful, beautiful rest.” 

And Harry’s laughing _again_ , and he decides that he likes Louis even more because he makes him laugh, and Harry doesn’t do to much of that, only when he’s around Niall or his books have a good line. That makes him feel a bit lame, but Louis is exuberant and funny in a strange sort of way, humor complex but simple, yet brilliant nonetheless. “I’m sorry to hear that I’m such a disappointment, Lou.” 

Louis just hums, shoots him a smile, and starts to swirl his palette knife around in colors. 

*** 

In the quiet, without Louis’ loud voice and soft rasp, his mind runs away with him. He looks at the other people, the ten or so of them, and wonders about them. And he’s not intrusive, but sometimes he’ll look at someone and want to know everything about them. He never does find out, usually, because he knows what that means. Usually he’ll walk away without so much as a name. But now he wonders about these other artists that are scattered around the area of the park that they’re set up in, and he wants to know. There are so these people that he doesn’t recognize, and they’re all here interpreting. It’s foreign, to have so many people around him at once; he hasn’t felt that since he was fourteen years old and having panic attacks in the back of the classroom. But now there’s women and men sitting in a park with him, looking at the same thing as him, but he wants to know why they’re here. 

Why are they here and what are they doing and how do they think and what are they painting and what do they like. 

And he didn’t choose to put himself in a place like this, a place with all these people that will make him wonder, but still, it’s only natural that he thinks and thinks and thinks about it. 

But they say that curiosity killed the cat. 

And Harry’s in the middle of wondering _who am I who am I who am I_ for the millionth time when Louis is leaning over tray table and walking a hand up his arm so his brush draws away from his canvas. His lips come up to Harry’s ear, “I’ve made it a pact that every time I see you I’m going to ask a new question, and so I’m genuinely curious: what’s your favorite color?” 

Harry pauses, and he looks at Louis’ eyes for a long moment before saying, “Blue. I like blue.” 

Louis smiles and his eyes made laugh lines and his teeth are bright and white and he’s got little fangs that show, and Harry briefly wonders if he bites. Briefly. “Well, Harry,” Louis starts, “I guess we’re a match made in heaven because I like blue as well.” 

Harry looks at the blue in Louis’ eyes again and then at his canvas. “I guess so.” 

*** 

Harry’s not so sure how Louis manages to be so perfectly imperfect. He’s got his perfect but messy hair, and he’s got his perfect paintings even though they’re all bright colors and lines and smudges. And he’s got this perfect personality even though he’s too loud and too blinding and all over the place. And it’s infuriating, because he’s perfect in his own special way, but he seems to know himself so well in the way his painting that he’s doing now – the tree with the blossoms on it – is so vivid and radiant, and it’s so full of life just like the park is, and it manages to depict Louis perfectly. It captures his eagerness and his constant buzzing and bold, loudness. But it’s still perfect. 

And Harry doesn’t get it, when he looks at his canvas, because it’s perfect, but not perfectly imperfect, and it still doesn’t show Harry. It’s just a single flower on a single branch on a single tree in the park. It’s not Harry’s tree. And for a moment, he thinks that Louis’ flowers aren’t perfect, but they’re not going to die, either. They’re not going to leave. They’re forever going to be _Louis’_ flowers, because they are Louis in and of themselves, while Harry’s are just flowers, and if they were people he reckons they’d be faceless. 

Sometimes, he’ll take little breaks, and just watch Louis paint. His technique, his expression, his tongue that pokes out between his lips in concentration or the little smirk that spreads across his face when he does something just right. Harry still thinks he’s beautiful. And even though it’s not like _that_ , he kind of wants it to be like _that_ , he just doesn’t know if he can. If he will. If Louis woud even want to. But Harry lives a life in constant fear of future and death and people, and that doesn’t exactly scream “date me.” 

But by the end of the class they’ve had far too much fleeting eye contact and soft little grins that Harry is squirming in his seat, flower completed. It looks nice, kind of, Harry thinks, but that’s his reaction to almost every piece he’s ever done – kind of nice. Louis’ looks absolutely electric, with shocking colors and sharp shapes and the same imperfect perfection that he’s seemingly made up of. 

“That’s my favorite one by you, yet,” Harry tells him, and a hand creeps up his shoulder to squeeze the back of his neck gently. 

“Thanks, mate! I quite like it as well, I channeled all my chivalry into it.” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“You’re right,” Louis amends. “I didn’t. But, I did think about talking to you about chivalry whilst painting it, so that’s got to count for something.” Yeah, Harry thinks, something. They look at each other’s work, for a while, studying eyes, until Louis meets his eye and says, “Am I allowed to ask you another question, Harry Styles?” 

Harry can feel the cheeky “you just did,” on his tongue, but instead he says, “Sure.” Rocking back on his toes and Louis’ hand feeling increasingly heavy on his shoulder, ever so present, almost bearing him down when just moments ago when he didn’t sound so – so intense, when it was just a comforting touch. 

“How would you feel about Sunday lunch with me?” 

Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and he stares at the shadows that Louis’ eyelashes are casting on his pretty, high cheekbones. “I think I would like that a lot. ” 

So maybe it is like _that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!!! And once again, you can find me on tumblr at eroticlou.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hii! This chapter's a bit longer, and I really like it. Things are shaping up...

Harry Styles has officially deemed himself the biggest shit. 

He has two very bad habits: dwelling and panicking. When it comes to Louis, he does both. Well, maybe he has more than two bad habits, but he reckons those two are the worst. Harry went home after that art class, and he thought of how Louis told him to just meet him at that quiet café in town, and Harry thought about it and thought about it and thought about it until it was too much. So he slept restlessly and dreamt of blue eyes, and when he woke up, he didn’t want to go out to Sunday lunch anymore. He had freaked himself out too much, like when he had an oral report in primary school, and he told himself he wasn’t afraid, but when the time came, he ended up vomiting before class. Kind of like that. 

So now he’s sitting in his shed and drowning in sad music when he could be drowning in blue eyes, and he’s definitely still dwelling, and definitely still panicking. Sunday’s not so hot, he thinks. But he dwells on, thinking, I’m so stupid for not going, but then, what if I _did_ go and made an idiot of myself? And it’s a vicious cycle tearing through his head, regret and relief all at once until he curls up on his couch for a bit of a mope because his head hurts and he doesn’t want it to be like _that_. He doesn’t want any of it, but he still wants Louis. 

It’s his boldness that’s terrifying, Harry thinks. He thinks his electricity will shock Harry into a state that he doesn’t understand, and he hates that. He always likes to able to understand what’s going on. He’s guilt ridden, too, because he didn’t mean to be such a prat. He admits that it was very prat-like to just stand Louis up, but he’s tiptoeing around the things he wants to surround himself in. He sees it as something irreversible. Once he goes in, he can’t go back, and he’s not entirely sure what he’s risking. He doesn’t know whether to dive headfirst, when he’s never, never really met someone like this or done stuff with _people_. So he panics. And when he panics (and he does that _a lot_ ) he just becomes overwhelmed and immobile because of the thought that start to flood his mind. 

So he sits down in his shed for the whole week – sparing time for lessons and food and texts with Niall and chats with his mum – and he paints. He paints because even though painting can often be stressful for him, he takes things easy and finds simple things in them, and it’s relaxing, and for a while he forgets about guilt and want and the corners of his mind because he’s at ease for once, and times like this do not come often. 

He goes back to class the next week (they’re at another field this week, but it’s bigger and brighter because spring has progressed, bringing efflorescence with it) and doesn’t know whether to want Louis to hate and ignore or to forgive and forget. But when he gets there, he parts with his mum with a kiss on the cheek and takes a breath of fresh air that he hopes can calm the pounding in his chest. He shakes out his hair and sees Louis looking at the meadow with an empty easel next to him and his fingers tapping on his thigh. He turns his head at Harry’s gentle footsteps on the grass and sends him a strange look, and Harry really didn’t want him to look at him strangely. He feels guilty, and his stomach is twisting in knots, and he wishes that he thought less and wasn’t a coward when it came to standing him up. He didn’t mean to hurt any feelings or make Louis’ eyes a little less bright, so he scrubs a hand across his face and takes a seat. 

When Louis doesn’t say anything, stops meeting his eyes, he places a hand on his shoulder and says, “Hey.” Louis just looks at him, a peculiar dazzle to his gaze, curious and eyebrows furrowed a little. “Listen, Lou, I– I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stand you up, y’know, last week. I don’t know what I was thinking, and I didn’t have a way to reach you, and I just felt really bad, and I’m sorry. I feel like a prat, so just – sorry.” He hangs his head a little, drops his gaze Louis’ eyes, drops his hand from Louis’ shoulder. 

Fingers a creeping up his own arm then, and Louis smiles at him, that mischievous glint returning. He squeezes lightly, and before Harry can register a thing, Louis is swiping his other hand through the cerulean on his palette and smearing it right across Harry’s pale cheek. Harry squawks because oil paint is fucking hard to get off, but he takes a deep breath and grins back at Louis with his little fangs and crinkled eyes and swipes him right back, two fingers wiping cadmium yellow paint right under Louis’ eye. 

It doesn’t continue, but they sit and paint, and that’s all. Louis will hum to a song, and Harry keeps looking at him, at his fringe falling into his eyes and tongue peaking out of his mouth in concentration, and he smiles. Sometimes Louis will look up, and he’ll grin, but Harry is always shy when he gets caught, smile bashful. They talk, a little, and Louis tells Harry about his friends Zayn and Liam. Apparently they’re crazy, a little, (for each other, Louis says) and they’re dating and in love, and Louis loves them to bits. Harry tells Louis about Niall, and he’s crazy, too, so he thinks they might get along. 

It’s mostly quiet, though, and for once Louis finishes late and Harry finishes early. He watches Louis paint like Louis watches Harry and likes the way he’s reckless and mixes random colors with his brush instead of his palette knife, and he’ll make lines and smudges and Harry never knows what they’ll add up to. But once he’s done, he tips back in his chair and sends Harry once of his mega-watt smiles with the crinkles and the eyes and the teeth, and he says, “Come to the park with me.” 

And Harry can’t think of anything else to say but, “Okay.” 

*** 

It’s different than the one they painted the other week, but just as serene with benches everywhere and flowering trees and birds that sing songs that Harry wishes he could understand. They sit together, thighs pressed close and Harry very conscious of it. They people-watch for a while, not saying anything, just studying those who walk by. Harry wonders about their lives and wonders what Louis thinks when he looks at them. It’s only after some time that Louis asks his question. 

“Why are you afraid?” he murmurs, voice soft, meeting Harry’s gaze with insistence in his own. Harry looks at him, swallowing his question and trying to figure out how to digest it. It doesn’t go down very well. 

“Afraid of what?” Harry asks, and he thinks that maybe he knows, but he doesn’t know how Louis could’ve figured it out. 

“I know you’re afraid, Harry. You’re afraid of me, you’re afraid of my compliments. I’m sure you’re afraid of other things. It’s okay, though. I’m curious. Don’t feel obliged to answer, Harry Styles, I’m just intrusive.” He smiles softly, and Harry wishes he could smile back. 

He takes a deep breath, furrows his brow. Tries to think of a way to respond. He twiddles his fingers and tries to look at Louis again but can’t bring himself to do it. “The human mind is a death trap and a nightmare. It’s killing us all from over thinking. It’s all we do. It’s all I do.” And Harry’s not sure if that’s an answer to the question, but he guesses that Louis accepts it because he doesn’t say anything for a beat or two. 

“Sometimes you’ve just got to be reckless, Harry,” he starts. 

Harry almost wants to scoff, but he thinks that might be rude. He’s never been one for precarious things. He’s not brave. He’s not daring. He’s boring and scared and holes himself up because he’s afraid of moving forward because none of that stuff really lasts. He doesn’t know why his walls have come down for Louis when he’s worked so hard to keep them up, to keep that solitude and numbness. He doesn’t know how Louis has managed to barrel in and knock him breathless. 

“Live in the moment,” Louis says. 

Harry shakes his head, and he might want to cry a little because Louis is so earnest, but bold and wholehearted. “I just can’t _think_ like that. All good things come to an end.” And Harry doesn’t know why he’s telling Louis all this. He probably won’t care. He doesn’t know why, but he is. 

“Maybe we just need a way to take your mind off of things,” Louis mutters, and he reaches a gentle hand to Harry’s jaw and tilts his head up so their eyes can meet. 

Harry’s eyes are downcast. “I don’t think it’s that easy.” 

Louis smiles sadly, but pushes his lips to Harry’s cheek where the cerulean has dried and says, “I reckon we’ll find a way.” 

Harry goes home feeling a little more like Harry. 

*** 

The tingle lingering on his cheek from Louis’ lips doesn’t leave for hours, and it takes Harry just as long as the feeling remains to scrub the paint off his cheek, leaving his skin pink and his mind reeling. He thinks too much about what Louis said to him, and he spends the whole week fiddling with paint, mixing colors but not using them, never bringing himself to do anything. He sighs a lot, mostly confusedly, and puts his outrageous colors in the freezer so they don’t go to waste. He ends up resorting to his sketch book instead and draws the ivy and the grass and the spring’s earliest flowers. He tells himself that he’s overreacting when he starts to think too much, starts to think about what Louis said and how Louis smeared paint across his face and how Louis kissed his cheek. He traces patterns on his paint jeans and paints the wind chime that hangs off of his shed. 

When Niall comes over on Friday they sit cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of crisps and complain about their love lives. Niall whines about not getting laid and Harry whines about having a boy he wants but doesn’t want. Niall understands. They watch a movie on the display of Harry’s wide screened Mac and fall asleep on the couch, both of them snoring too loud but Harry’s thoughts louder. He kicks Niall out the next morning, and he takes a shower and puts on his paint jeans and looks at the schedule to see where they’re going to paint today. 

He sees that it’s another park, the one where Louis kissed his cheek, and that they’re supposed to bring an object with them. They’re supposed to take an object they love and put it in an unexpected place. Harry would never paint anything like that ever, he doesn’t understand _why_ anyone would in the first place, but it’s a requirement, so he clasps his fist around his necklace and thinks that’ll do. He fiddles with it the whole way there and is happy it’s walking distance away because he thinks he’d be too twitchy for a car ride. 

Louis looks almost the same as last week, messy sweatpants hanging low on his hips, t-shirt dipping to show his collarbones, feet propped up on his easel as he sits next to the empty one beside him. Harry walks up behind him, putting his hands on Louis’ shoulders, and he has once again failed to fright him. Louis’ hands just come to sit on top of his own, and he murmurs, “Hi, Harry.” 

Harry leaves his hands for a second, but sits and says, “Hi, Lou.” Then Louis says nothing, standing and settling a picture in a low branch of a tree that dips right into their line of sight. Harry watches him with curious eyes and waits until he sits back down to ask. “Why’ve you put a picture in a tree?” 

Harry likes the smile that Louis gives him, all bright and sincere, but new, just forming, like a fire that’s just started to burn. “It’s me family, those are my sisters there, mum. I can’t actually bring them with me, but they’re the most important thing I’ve got.” Harry likes his words almost as much as his smile. He absently plays with his necklace. 

“Why in a tree, then?” Harry asks. 

“I’ve got to put it somewhere unexpected, haven’t I?” And his grin is so bright, almost devilish, that fire sparking to life, that Harry has to grin back, big and real, and he thinks it might make up for all the time he spends frowning, all the time he spends thinking. 

He watches Louis paint for a while, because he wants to see what he does with it, how he paints a picture of a picture, but with a backdrop of nature. It is unexpected, Harry thinks, but it seems to suit Louis, like everything he does. Louis knows he’s watching, Harry knows he knows, but he wants to watch the flick of his wrist and the concentration that drapes itself on Louis’ face and the way he takes what’s in front of him and turns it into what he sees. He takes off his necklace, after a while, the little paper plane pendant that his mum got him when he turned fourteen, just months after he gave up on school. He never asked why a plane, but he always liked to think that it symbolized freedom, that one day he’ll get there. Free from his mind, his thoughts, free to go wherever he wants to go. Harry likes symbolism he just thinks that maybe not everyone sees things the way he does. Maybe a little like Louis. 

He clasps the chain again and hangs it on the branch that Louis’ photo is balancing on. There’s an open flower, almost as big as his curled fist, and he lets the chain drape from the petals and the pendant rest in the center. The difference of it makes it squirm, the unusual sense of it, because he thinks that no one would ever leave their necklace in a flower. But he paints, almost slower than his normal rate, his meticulousness even more fueled by the oddity of his reference. The drawing takes him a ridiculous amount of time, so he decides he wants to talk if he can’t get this right. Louis will talk to him, instead. 

It’s almost as if Louis can read his mind though, because he tips back in his chair, resting it on two legs and dropping his brush on his tray table. “What do you think about death?” he asks, and well – that catches Harry by surprise. 

Harry clears his throat. “Erm, care to specify?” 

“Like, what do you think happens when you die? Do you believe in after life, or like, reincarnation, or God, or heaven?” (Harry’s certain he hears him hum _“heaven is a place on earth with you_ ” under his breath, and he wants to laugh at being able to recognize Lana Del Rey.) His brow furrows though. 

“Why does it matter if the things and people I had before me are not with me then? Nothing’s confirmed, everything leaves anyway. I think about death a lot, Louis, but I think it’s more complicated than that. Reincarnation is a pretty thought, but like, we didn’t start out with seven billion people, so how could our souls constantly be turning into someone new if our reproduction rate is so fast? And God and heaven? That’s a happy thought, too, but I just don’t know if it makes sense. So we just keep on living even though we’re dead? I just– I like logic, and none of those are logical to me. I– sorry. I’ve put too much thought into this.” 

Louis smiles at him, but it’s more hesitant, like his flame was snuffed. “Don’t apologize; I think it’s interesting. I haven’t thought about it that much, I just like to hear what you think.” 

Harry looks down, he can’t keep looking at Louis watching him. “I just– I just think that we spend so much of our lives just counting down, counting down, counting down. We count down to whatever’s next. But what’s the point if in the end all those great things are just gonna pass and soon enough there’s nothing to look forward to anymore? I just don’t see the point. So many people look to God or whatever, or hope – something. But we’re all doomed anyway! I don’t see the point if everything dies eventually. Like, oh! My birthday’s in a week – it’s not really, but for instance, here, Lou,” he says when Louis goes to light up and say happy birthday. “It’s just, so? You have one day of people celebrating you and then what? A year closer to death? Phenomenal. Absolutely phenomenal.” 

“See, you can’t look at things like that!” Louis exclaims, and Harry surprised he’s not so scared. Usually when he blows off on a tangent like that, people get scared. 

“I can’t _help_ it!” Harry says, and he’s not arguing to simply argue. He hates his mindset, he hates thinking that way, but his mind is always reeling and churning up things that he doesn’t want to see. 

“We need you to open your eyes. It’s all about memory, Haz. Not to live in the past, but to live in the moment so when you do look at those things that have already happened, you have something good to look back on.” 

And Harry has nothing to say to that. 

*** 

They don’t talk for a while after that, and Harry’s mind is so full of the fire in Louis’ words that his focus is off balance, and his meticulousness is amped up tenfold. He finally gets to painting, and he fists his brush too tight and bites down on his lips too hard. His desire for perfection is even bigger, especially because he’s thinking about the positivity that Louis was sending him. The _live in the moment!_ of it all. He just doesn’t know _how_. He doesn’t have anything to distract him. And briefly he might set down his brush while Louis is working in his little zone where nothing can penetrate his concentration and look at him, and Harry might think that Louis could be the perfect distraction. But he watches his dexterous hands and nimble fingers and feels a surge of affection that he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. 

That makes him look away. 

Four hours shoot past him faster than he can imagine, and he spends his time with a detail brush thinner than just a few hairs, and his focus is so strong it feels like his hand is going to start to shake. He spares glances for Louis, to see his progress and his sparkly eyes and charisma that he manages to paint. He wants to reach over and brush the hair out of Louis’ eyes because that’s something that always bothers him, but he clenches his fist and doesn’t. He watches as Louis’ family comes to life, and he thinks it’s the same way that Louis’ face lights up when he thinks of something or says something or gets excited – bright and imperfect, but stunningly beautiful. Harry’s flower is only just unfolding, a creamy white that’s excruciatingly hard to paint, and he squeezes his eyes shut one times too many and feels his pulse in his temples. He wants to feel Louis’ lips on his cheek again. 

When time is up he’s scowling because he hasn’t finished and he’s not supposed to stay. The lighting is bound to change soon, anyway. He knows that this painting will always be incomplete, and maybe this memory will be, too. Barely there, only half clear in his mind. He’s sad but not irrational, and he feels Louis looking at him. He shifts on one foot and stands, making to clean up his paints and wash his brushes in the turpentine. He swirls them in oil and wipes them on paper towels, but he needs more for his palette knife and other brushes. He didn’t even use the thick ones. 

Louis is bolting out of his chair before he can part, and he slides up next to Harry with a gentle arm around his waist with a kind of tenderness that Harry has never felt before, either. He feels a shock run through his torso – there’s Louis, with his electricity – and he pulls in a sharp breath. He likes Louis’ touch. It’s comforting but intoxicating. Gripping in both the figurative and literal sense. His dejection and woe must be present on his face because Louis leans close, his breath is on Harry’s ear making him shiver, and he says, “It’s beautiful.” 

Harry’s a little confused, because when he turns to meet Louis’ eye, maybe say something to him, he isn’t looking at the painting. 

The linger of Louis’ touch and Louis’ eyes doesn’t seem to fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right guys! Let me know what you think! You can always find me on tumblr, too, eroticlou.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the flower-behind-ear theme that is tending to repeat itself in my fics. Harry with flowers in his hair just gets to me.

They’re sitting on that bench again, the one from last week, and the breeze is making their hair tousle, and Harry likes the way Louis keeps running his fingers through his. Harry just lets his own fall into his eyes. They listen to the sounds of the park for a while, because after they had finished cleaning Louis had just grabbed Harry’s wrist and said, “Come on.” So they sat, and they’re still sitting, and now they’re listening. Harry wonders if the birds have anything to tell him, or if the rustling of the trees in the wind sounds different for everyone, if it means something different for all those people. 

Louis’ hand is sitting on his thigh, and it’s drumming a pattern that’s making Harry shiver, and he doesn’t know where to look. He can’t look at his unfinished painting or in Louis’ eyes because both will give him a funny feeling in his stomach. He settles for the runners that move past him. Louis is watching him, he can feel it, and suddenly he’s squeezing his knee and asking, “Where do you paint?” and Harry can tell it’s purely from overwhelming curiosity; it’s written in his voice. 

“A shed in my backyard,” Harry responds simply, really because that’s all there is to it. 

“Tell me about it,” Louis requests, and he tips his head back over the edge of bench and his fringe falls from his forehead, and Harry does the same, watching the clouds until his neck hurts. 

Harry pauses on his answer, though, no sure if he should make this decision or not – if it’s a good idea or not. He’s weighing things over in a _should I do it or am I dumb_ sense, but figures he’s not got much to lose, and Louis is different. A good different. So he says, “Do you wanna come see it?”  

Louis hums and checks the time on his phone after he tips his head back and rubs at the back of his neck. “I have time. I’d love to see your shed, Harry Styles.” His eyes sparkle like a reflection of the sky that he was just staring at. There are no clouds in his eyes, though, they’re as clear as a summer’s day, bright and shining with no secrets, but things he still does not yet know, things he wants to find out. 

So they go to the shed. 

*** 

Harry leads the way, and Louis is at his side. Their hands brush, and he so badly wants to twine their fingers together because he likes the way Louis’ skin feels, but he doesn’t. That feeling in his stomach is back. He wants the wind to carry it away and replace it with the sweet smell of spring. 

Once they reach the front yard Louis stops by the front beds with the daffodils, and he bends down and asks, “May I?” 

Harry nods because flowers grow back, and he trusts Louis. Louis plucks the white flower from its stem and smooths a gentle hand across Harry’s forehead, brushes the loose hairs, and he tucks the flower right behind Harry’s ear. 

“There,” he says. “Now, I expect a grand tour, if I can have the honor.”  

Harry laughs, and the wind has done nothing for him as the feeling in his stomach has gone nowhere, if not gotten worse. “Grand tour it is, then, though there’s not much to see.” 

Louis winks, and Harry rolls his eyes despite his fluster. “You’ll make it interesting.”  When they’re in Harry’s bedroom, Louis flops onto Harry’s bed, but pulls Harry with him so they’re just a laughing mess of limbs. 

When they’re in Harry’s kitchen, Harry reaches into the refrigerator to get them drinks and presses up against Harry’s back, making him shiver, and peers past him. He hums. “Isn’t it odd,” Louis starts, and Harry can’t quite tell what he’s looking at, “how we keep a dead chicken in our fridge?” And Harry laughs, he laughs really loud, because it is odd and Louis is perfectly imperfect and random and lovely, and Harry’s finding that he wants to feel him and touch him and memorize parts of him that he does not yet know, and it’s scaring him. It’s scaring him because this is everything he said he didn’t want, but he does. He does want it and he wants Louis so he just takes a step back through his laughter, hand hiding his too-fond smile, and Louis moves away. 

He hands Louis his drink and says, “It is weird, but you’re a dolt.” 

“And proud of it,” Louis says, and Harry thinks he might be in over his head. 

 *** 

“And these are all in alphabetical order?” 

Harry ducks his head and turns bright red, his gaze dropping from where Louis‘ fingers are walking across the spins of the books that line one of the walls in his shed. “Erm, yeah. I like organization.” 

“It’s sick!” Louis exclaims. “Honestly, my room’s pile of shit.” 

“I’m sure it’s not,” Harry says, and he’s scuffing the toe of his shoe against the hardwood floor, but Louis bounding over to his desk and sitting right on top, next to his iMac. 

“No, really, it is. I’m just too lazy to do anything. And I am well aware of the fact that within the hour it will be back to the same mess, if not worse.” Harry grins. Louis drums his fingers on the table, and Harry studies him, trying to figure out where his eyes that are jumping from place to place are training on. Harry touches a lilac streak on the pocket of his jeans. “Have you got any more of your work I can look at?” 

Harry coughs. “Um, yeah. Of course.” He stands and folds his hand into the side of the book case, and it swings open as a door when he yanks. “Storage, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Louis exclaims, a little caught off guard, blinking heavily. 

“S’not very big, but it holds ‘em, y’know? For now.” Harry smiles and lets Louis pass so he can pull on the cord that illuminates the almost closet-like space, and he just stares, for a while. 

Louis laughs a little, overwhelmed. “Honestly I’m not sure where to look. This is pretty amazing, Harry.” 

Harry blushes. “It’s nothing.” 

It’s not nothing, Harry knows it. It’s stacks upon stacks of paintings, and theres a layer of wax paper between each. They’re sized by canvas and they’re all so intricate and beautiful, but he can’t bring himself to be anything else but painfully modest. He has never been good with compliments. 

“It’s not nothing! It’s crazy! I’ve never seen anything so organized. All this deserves to be, too. You’re bloody talented, man.” 

“Thanks,” Harry murmurs, and he looks down. “You can have a look-see. I’ll just turn on some music? And sit, I guess. Take your time.” 

Louis smiles at him, and Harry is thankful that he can turn afterward, because he reckons if he gets any redder he’ll explode. He wants to play something soft but not too soft, so he settles on the Kooks and Louis turns just to smile at him when he hears the opening bars. And Harry thought he couldn’t like Louis any more. 

He’s not sure how long it is, but eventually Louis comes out and turns off the light, settling opposite to Harry on the couch so their feet meet in the middle, but it’s quiet, still, other than the music. And Louis is still looking everywhere, at the warmth of the creamy walls and the few paintings that Harry has hung up and the mass of notebooks that line the desk. Harry takes it that since Louis is looking everywhere, Harry can look at Louis. Harry looks at Louis’ long eyelashes and soft skin and bright complexion and his natural radiance that makes Harry want to love him and hate him at the same time. 

He looks and looks, and really he should know better, because Louis feels it, and he looks back. And then Harry stops looking because when their eyes lock that feeling in his stomach is back, the one he likes but says he doesn’t like because it makes him feel like every single one of his armies are down. It makes him feel unprotected and vulnerable and it’s sweet in the bitter way. 

But Louis doesn’t stop looking even when he looks back, and that’s when he starts to ask questions, and Harry has noted that it might be Louis’ favorite thing to do. And it’s a little invasive and sometimes it’s scary or he doesn’t want to answer, but it’s always asked with that soft smile that tells him it’s okay to say that he doesn’t want to respond. 

He usually does, anyway. 

He asks about the garden and what blooms in the summertime, and Harry wants to say that he can come find out, but instead he prattles off a list of flowers like hibiscuses and sunflowers and watches Louis beam bright. Then he asks about Harry’s sister, and Harry guesses he mentioned her in passing because he doesn’t even remember telling him about her. He tells him about uni and her pretty smile, and Louis says that Harry’s _got_ to meet his little gaggle of girls one day, and it’s Louis, and he’s agreeing before he even realizes that he’s meeting someone new. He returns Louis’ bright smile without hesitance and giggles when Louis rubs his bare foot along his ankle. 

When the album ends mid-ZaynandLiam-story, Louis springs up to change it and puts on something a little louder but just as nice. “Great library, you’ve got, Haz.” 

“Thanks,” Harry murmurs happily. He’s proud of his music. He likes it because it picks him up when he’s down. (And he tries not to think about how lately Louis and the thought of him has been, too.) 

Louis hums. He crawls back onto the couch and falls with his feet on the floor, and Harry rearranges himself so he’s seated that way, too. Their thighs press close, and Harry’s looking. He’s looking but he can’t look away, and Louis is looking right back. He licks his lips and feels Louis’ hand creep onto his thigh. He’s aware of the music, but he can’t really hear it. He only hears the softness of their breathing and the way the _thumpthumpthump_ in his chest is getting louder, getting faster. Louis’ hands reach up to touch his cheek, smooth across where he smeared the paint like he did that one time in the field. Harry watches Louis’ eyes flick to his lips, and Harry sucks in a breath, licks his lips again, because he _wants_. All he wants is right before him, and what he wants, he really _wants_. 

Then Louis is saying, “Can I kiss you?” when really he shouldn’t have asked, and Harry is nodding before he can think, and he wonders if this dry press of the lips is _having_. He wonders if he has what he wants, wonders if this is it, and he moves closer, wants more. He touches, touches Louis’ soft skin under a worn t-shirt. But the kiss is dry, too dry. And then Louis is parting his lips and it’s not dry anymore. It’s warm and soft and it feels like _Louis_. It feels like Louis and everything he wants and is not so sure if he has, but then he’s tensing. He seizes up and it’s almost involuntary. Louis pulls back, weaving his fingers through Harry’s hair still, not wanting to let him go. Harry doesn’t want to let him go. “Too much? Bad kisser? I’m going for the worst – bad breath?” 

Harry laughs nervously. “Ehm, no. None – none of that. I just – I’ve never done this before.” 

“Done what? With a boy?” 

Harry can feel the redness in his cheeks. He chuckles just because he’s not sure what else he should do. “Erm, nothing? With anyone? Like, at all?” Harry squeaks. He’s not sure if his cheeks can get any more scarlet, but if they’re able to, they would’ve in that moment. 

Louis smiles at him, thumbs a finger across Harry’s soft, blushing cheek. “That’s okay.” 

Harry puffs out a breath. “I just don’t have any experience,” Harry half laughs. Louis stares at him, bites his lip. He looks like he’s going to explode. “What?” Harry asks. 

“There’s something extremely embarrassingly corny I could say right now, but I don’t want to ruin the moment.” 

Harry laughs, more genuinely now. He rolls his eyes playfully because he’s feeling bold. “Say it. M’not sure if you could ruin it.”  “You sure?” Louis asks dubiously. Harry nods. “Well, budge up, then, lay back.” Harry scoots back, pressing his back against the arm of the couch and listening to his own breath hitch as Louis lowers himself down into his lap. Louis is grinning at him, and Harry thought that he’d be thinking a millions different things in a moment like this, but he’s not. He’s just thinking about Louis’ bright eyes and soft lips and his little vampire teeth. He still wants to know if he bites. Louis is gentle with his touches, fingers walking over Harry’s collarbones and smoothing down his shoulders where his shirt’s neck is stretched. 

“I don’t think you’re ready for this line, Harry.” 

“Tell me already, you dolt.”  

Louis has his big, sunny smile on, then, and he leans in close so his breath is on Harry’s ear. It makes him shiver. “I’ll give you a little experience, if you catch my drift.” His voice is lower than usual, and maybe it’s supposed to be seductive, but Harry just throws his head over the arm of the couch and barks out a laugh, that one that always happens when he’s with Louis, and watches and Louis ducks his head in shame. “Moment ruined?” he asks. 

“Not even close,” Harry says breathlessly. His hands are at his sides, and Louis picks them up and places them firmly on his waist. Harry likes the way Louis’ skin feels under his fingertips. 

“I’m gonna kiss you again, okay?” 

Harry nods. “Sorry if it sucks.” 

“It won’t,” Louis says. “Just don’t –  _think_. Feel.” 

Harry nods again. The feeling of Louis on him is making him buzz already anyway. Louis leans forward, tilting his head, fitting to Harry, and he lets his lips just barely brush against Harry’s, but he shudders. Then Louis waits and flutters his fingers down Harry’s arm. He’s teaching, Harry realizes, waiting for Harry to do, for Harry to have. So he leans forward more, angles his head, and fits to Louis, letting his lower lip catch between Louis’. Their lips slide together, and Harry has to suck a breath in with his nose to adjust to the burning coming from his fingertips and the way his head feels cloudy with senses – with the taste and the smell and the touch. 

And then there’s a slick glide of their tongues and the heat, and there’s the rub of Louis’ fingers, gentle on his wrist where his hands are still gripping Louis’ waist. His other hand finds its way into Harry’s hair, scratching at his scalp lightly, feeling any tension slip through his fingertips as Louis sucks on his tongue. Any last thoughts vanish. He likes the weight of Louis in his lap, the way he heightens his senses and sends that shock through him. His heart rate gets fast again, racing through his chest, and his cheeks are warm with the heat that Louis is giving him. Their lips make that smacking noise and he lets out little mewls, especially when Louis pets his hair or scratches at the base of his neck. 

When they draw apart, he whines, but Louis rests his forehead against Harry’s and lets him breathe. 

“Good?” he asks. 

“Good,” Harry repeats. “Really, really good.” 

Harry thinks, just for a moment, not long enough where his thoughts could run away with him, of the time in the field with the paint across his cheek, how he had grinned and felt that breathless feeling. But now, he thinks, that was a brushstroke and this was a kiss, and it is so much more. 

Louis reaches up into his hair again and plucks the daffodil from his curls that Harry had forgotten about. He spins it in his fingers, and Harry snatches it from him, staring at the petals and letting it rest behind Louis’ ear this time. It falls straight away, and Harry pouts. 

“It likes you better,” Louis murmurs, and he sticks it behind Harry’s ear again, watches it stay. 

“Well,” Harry bites. “Whatever, your flower will just be metaphorical, then.”  

“Yeah?” Louis asks. “And what flower do I have?” He turns on Harry’s lap, so his bum is flush to Harry’s groin and his back against Harry’s chest. His head rests in the crook of Harry’s neck, and Harry looks down to meet with _blueblueblue_ eyes. They have that summer sparkle, still, even inside. 

“Are we talking in-season, or can it be any flower? I need specifics, Louis. Give me something to work with, here.” 

Louis nudges his arm. “Pushy,” he mutters. “Hmm... any flower you want. A flower for me.” 

“I’m more one for bouquets, but we can always change it up. But for now, I think you’re a pansy.” 

“Hey!” Louis squawks, furrowing his brow in an angry pout. 

“Not for that reason. I actually know quite a bit about pansies, I have a book.” 

Louis looks around. “Wouldn’t surprise me.” 

“Shh,” Harry says. “Listen.” His voice is soft, soothing. His hands are at his sides again, and Louis curls more into his side than on top of him, and he pets at his hipbone where Harry’s shirt has ridden up. He touches as a reminder that Harry can touch, so he just lets his hand rest idly on Louis’ chest, feeling his heartbeat and his breathing. “Pansy comes the word _pensée_ , it’s _en français_ , which means think. And you make me think – a lot. And it’s good, but I feel like they suit you. And they’re everywhere and they’re colorful and bright and I– I’m rambling, sorry.” 

Louis presses his lips to Harry’s neck, then cranes to peck his lips. “I think that’s ought to be the most sentimental thing anyone has ever said to me, and while calling me a pansy, as well! Well done, Harry Styles. I’m proud to be a pansy.” 

Harry chuckles fondly, blushing again, grin too wide for his face and making his cheeks hurt. “Well, I’m a daffodil!” he attempts to argue. He brushes his nose on the top of Louis’ head. “Is that any better?” 

“I suppose if you’re trying to keep masculinity up to par being called any flower is not exactly going to do it.” 

“And now you see my reasoning.” 

“You had no reasoning. You just brought that up now.” Harry pouts and Louis laughs, and he kisses the very corner of Harry’s mouth to make up for it. “Don’t go all frowny on me now, Haz. You’re prettier when you smile.” Harry blushes again, and sure enough, he smiles. Harry thinks of another time, when Louis swooned over his dimples. His smile gets bigger. “There we are,” Louis whispers, and he sits up, holds his weight up by resting his hands on Harry’s shoulders. “Much better.” He dips his lips down to Harry’s and presses soft, open mouth kisses there, leaving them like rain drops, until his arms get tired and Harry shoulders hurt, so he curls back onto his side. Harry is warm and content, and he’s not thought yet. He doesn’t want to think about any of this. Not the good or the bad or the coming or the going, just here and now, and he wonders if this is what Louis meant when he said _distraction_ , because this is the best distraction he could possibly ask for. 

When Louis starts to draw a pattern on his stomach, he thinks that this feels a lot like having.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I truly do appreciate the comments and kudos. You can find me on tumblr at eroticlou, and I love you all okay yay they kissed !!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not really sure  
> but hey handjobs

“Darlings!” Everyone in the lot turns their head to meet the attention of the voice. “Now I known we’re not in the most particularly _inspiring_ place this afternoon, but this week’s assignment is technically this week’s _and_ next week’s.” She giggles and Harry can’t help but smile at her high voice and pure zeal. “I didn't put it on the sheet for the itinerary because I figured this could be a surprise, and surprises are fun sometimes, right?” Lily laughs again and her smile is wide. That’s something Harry’s noticed about her; she always seems happy and cheerful he envies her for it. 

“Anyway,” she carries on, “this week we’ll be doing portraits, and you’re all required to partner up to paint each other. Hence the two weeks. Now, I realize we’re not in the most extraordinary place, but I reckon that’s more of the purpose. Use the backdrop you’re given to make your portrait come alive. Now, partner up and get to work!” Lily claps her hands once with that big smile of hers, and Harry grins again. 

They’re in a car park, and Harry is looking at Louis from across the way, and Louis is looking right back. Harry guesses that means partners, so he waits. Louis meets him by a corner, and he has an easel and one set of paints and two chairs. He’s not sure who it’s for. Neither of them sit, and Harry’s fair skin blushes at the way Louis is looking a him, with bright blue eyes and a sparkle. 

Harry likes the task they’re given – to take the simplicity of the background and really accentuate a person – but he’s always reckoned that people are the hardest. He’s always thought their features and complexions and differences are the biggest challenge, so he gestures for Louis to sit in the chair with the easel, even though he uses his lap as support more often. 

“Do you mind painting first?” Harry asks hesitantly, because he’s not so sure what Louis wants. 

Louis smiles at him gently, and his eyes crinkle up at the sides. “Not at all.” There’s a pause. “S’long as I can arrange you anyway I like.” 

Harry blushes and looks down at his Converse. “That’s all a part of portrait painting, I guess.” 

Louis smiles again. “Innit.” He laughs, so Harry does, too. 

It’s not very difficult for Louis to arrange Harry. It takes all of thirty seconds. Louis places gentle hands on his shoulders, pushes lightly so he sits in the foldout chair, and bows his head so his hair just barely goes into his eyes. Louis leaves a soft hand on the back of his neck and rubs softly. He crouches down next to Harry and whispers against his ear, “This comfortable, babe?” 

Harry is thinking too many things, so he decides to think nothing instead. He nods and his curls bobble in front of his eyes. “S’fine.” He smiles gently. 

“Good,” Louis says softly, still in his ear. He brushes his lips gently against Harry’s temple and Harry shivers. He wonders briefly where they are, the two of them. “If your neck starts to hurt, you tell me, and we’ll take a little break, yeah?” Harry nods and Louis hums. “I've got to go get one more thing, and then I'll start. Just a sec.” Maybe Louis doesn’t know where they are, either. Maybe he doesn’t care, or thinks that they’ll find out when they find out. Maybe Harry should think like that. 

Louis stands and walks away, but Harry doesn’t look up. When he feels Louis at his side again, he feels the familiar sensation of a stem being slid into his hair. “There,” Louis affirms. 

“What kind is it?” Harry asks. 

Louis purses his lips but doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Not sure. Could be anything. Maybe it's a pansy,” he jokes. Harry barks out a laugh. “It’s white,” he concludes. 

“Can I see?” Harry asks. 

“No,” Louis murmurs cheerfully. 

“Okay.” 

“Now shh...” Louis says. He sits down at his easel. “No talking. Gotta put beauty on canvas.” 

Harry is blushing again. 

*** 

They soon find that it’s rather difficult for Harry to hold a conversation without moving his head to a point where it’s distracting to Louis, so Harry just asks for him to tell him stories. Harry figures if he’s already so close, he wants to learn everything about him. He wants to know Louis inside and out, and he likes to listen to him. He likes the way he speaks and articulates and always sounds so enthusiastic about whatever he says. He still likes how bright he is in everything he does. Harry can’t talk, so he listens. 

Louis tells him the first things that come to his mind. He talks about when he first met Liam and Zayn in primary school, and how he always called them Troublesome Trio in his head, but he never said it aloud because it was stupid. He talks about how they would always get detention and would have to stay after school. His smile is broad the whole time, as he works, even though sometimes he stops mid-sentence and grows concentrated. He says that maybe one day Harry will have to meet them because they’re his best mates, and he really likes Harry. (Harry may or may not blush at that). He gets a little sad when he says they’re in uni, but he talks about how they’re coming home soon for summer, and he smiles again. 

Harry listens as Louis talks about colors while he paints, and how when he was little he said that red was his favorite, but as soon as he started with art, he couldn’t decide anymore. 

Louis asks him if he remembers that one time, when they talked about the sea and how he used to go – to which Harry nods brightly – and Louis says that he so badly wants to go. He wants to paint and watch and breathe in the salt. Harry wants to say how he wants to go with him. He wants to say how he wants to paint the water and the rain drops gathered on window panes and Louis’ eyes. He wants to say that they could go to the sea together. He doesn’t. 

He also talks about his infatuation with pizza and RedBull, which Harry can relate to immensely. Sometimes, when Harry doesn’t want to sleep, he’ll just drink RedBull and eat pizza and watch movies on the big screen of his Mac. He wants to tell Louis, so he does, because one sentence can’t hurt. He too wants to tell Louis that he wants to stay up and watch movies and eat pizza and drink RedBull with him, but he doesn’t. Two sentences might hurt. 

But then Harry stops his thoughts in their tracks, because he wants to just listen to Louis’ comforting voice and absorb what he has to say and not think because now is not the time. So he doesn’t think. He lets the breeze tussle his hair and he looks through his hair to see Louis’ focused gaze and slight grin when he’s caught staring. 

Louis talks to him for four hours, and sometimes it’s quiet, so Louis can focus, but Harry likes when he can just listen to his breathing and the wind and the music and the scrape of the palette knife and the paint brush on the easel. It doesn’t feel long, when Louis finally stands and cracks his back and adjusts Harry’s neck so their eyes are meeting. Harry rolls his neck around a little, laughs when he looks at Louis again. 

“It hurt, didn’t it?” Louis asks, putting his hands on Harry’s shoulders and massaging his neck a little. He stands behind Harry’s chair, looking down at the top of his head. His fingers are cool on the back of Harry’s neck. 

“Just a bit,” Harry says. “I promise. I just didn’t want to interrupt.” 

“But I told you it was okay!” Louis argues, pressing his thumbs into Harry’s skin, making him let out a little noise of content. 

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs. “But it’s okay now, you’ve finished!” 

“I have,” Louis replies, a smile dancing on his lips like he can’t contain it. “I hope you like it. Do you wanna see?”  

“Yeah, I really would.” Louis doesn’t say anything in response, but he drags his fingers through Harry’s hair once to get him to loosen up, and Harry tips his head over the back of the chair to smile up at him, his grin asking _how did you know I like that so much?_ Louis smirks back at him and picks up his canvas, but sits down in his chair and holds it out in front of him. 

Harry is not sure what to say as a reaction, not sure what to do. The background is entirely black, just the darkness of the car park, but it makes Harry look so bright, much brighter than he thinks he is. His skin is milky white with a flush high in his cheeks, and his hair is twists and twirls and bends of brown, different shades and hues, and it’s stunning. It’s one of the most stunning paintings that Harry has ever seen, and he’s not sure how Louis does it. Harry knows he’d never be able to paint something so beautiful, so intricate but loose and free. The flower is simple in the hair covering his eyes, and Harry really wants to kiss Louis. The painting is purely _Louis_ , and just him, and he’s completely nonplussed, out of reaction. 

Louis’ fingers find their way to Harry’s knee. Harry looks up. “Do you like it?” 

Harry takes a deep breath and Louis’ eyes are sparkling still. “I think it’s the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen.” 

“Really?” Harry nods vehemently. “I was worried I wouldn’t do you justice,” Louis ponders. He taps along Harry’s knee again, along his paint jeans. 

“You’ve done more than that,” Harry says. 

Louis just hums and begins to clean up. 

Harry’s eyes follow him the whole time. When they turn to walk out of the parking lot and go their separate ways, their hands brush gently, and Harry can barely fight the desire to tangle their fingers. They stand still for a moment, Louis’ Harry painting dangling between two fingers as to not smear any of the wet oil paints, and they look at each other and the car park, and Harry looks at the painting and still can’t quite catch his breath when he sees how beautiful Louis made him. 

Once everyone has gone, Louis bends down and sets the painting on the ground, places two gentle hands on Harry’s waist, and pulls him closer. Their lips meet with a little bit of a clash, but Louis kisses him softly until his stomach is warm and he thinks he might feel as beautiful as Louis sees him. His cheeks flush pink when Louis pulls back, and as soon as the heat starts to drain from his face, Louis seems to take notice, so he kisses him again, letting their lips barely brush and tightening his grip on Harry’s waist. He reaches a hand up and spins the flower that still sticks out from Harry’s hair. 

Louis just grins at him, cheeky and bright with something Harry can’t really read, and then Louis is taking paper from his front pocket and sticking it into Harry’s back pocket, kissing him fleetingly, and then turning on his heel, picking up his painting, and leaving, not one word said. 

Harry’s okay with that, because as he treks home, he checks the note that Louis left him, and sees a phone number and a smiley face scrawled out. He sits on his couch for a long while when he gets home, thinking _should I do it or shouldn’t I?_ But in the end, he saves a contact in his mobile and sends a text. 

_come kiss me again. x_

It takes about fifteen minutes of Harry freaking out in his head until there’s a knock on his shed’s door and he’s bolting upright. He opens the door, and Louis grins at him. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi,” Harry responds. 

They watch each other for a little, and there’s something woven into the air that Harry can’t place. He pulls on Louis’ belt loop and then lets it go, letting him touch the water colors that are left on his desk from when he was painting that morning and fiddle with the pencils in their cup. He turns back to Harry, brushes his arm. 

“How’ve this last half hour been for you, then?” Louis asks, and he’s got his big, pretty grin on. 

Harry wants to laugh, but he follows Louis’ lead. He shrugs, instead. “Average. I’m rather hungry. Quite boring, if I’m honest.” 

Louis hums. “I’m hungry as well. Have you got any tortillas? I’m craving quesadillas.” 

“I might,” Harry says. 

Neither of them make a move to leave the shed, let alone check for tortillas. 

“So you want me to kiss you?” 

Harry pauses because there are several ways he could answer this. “Yeah,” he murmurs, deciding for nonchalant because he’s not in the mood for looking dumb. 

“Okay,” Louis says, and he’s plucking the flower from Harry’s hair and letting it fall to the ground. He shoves his fingers into Harry’s hair, pushes him back onto the couch, and sits on his lap to kiss him. He kisses slow and languid, running his hands along Harry’s scalp and not saying a word. They breathe, and Louis kisses everywhere, along his neck and his jaw, and his hands squeeze Harry’s biceps. 

Harry feels warmth in his chest and in his stomach, and he holds onto Louis’ waist because that seems safe. He lets himself be kissed and he revels in the heat that Louis’ hands leave in their wake. Harry’s mouth opens under the pressure of Louis’, and they kiss gently still, but eagerly. He lets Louis lick into his mouth, fiddle with the hem of the fresh, paint-less shirt he’d changed into. 

His fingers crawl underneath the fabric, cold and icy and making Harry gasp. He wanders his hands along Harry’s stomach, gentle, like his mouth, not meaning to scare Harry, or have him back out. His erection is pressing down into Harry’s thigh, and Harry’s is pressing right back. 

Harry kisses needy, wanting more, wanting to feel more. Louis’ fingers run over his hardened nipples, all the way up to his shoulders, and Harry mutters, “You can–” 

And Louis does. He peels Harry’s shirt off and his own, too, and their chests are warm flush together. Harry touches now, because Louis is letting him, and he pets along his hot, smooth back, the knobs of his spine, the muscles of his shoulders, small and rounded, but strong. Harry really, really, likes feeling. He doesn’t know what he’s doing but he wants to keep doing it, thought being clouded by action. 

“Can I get you off, Harry?” Harry’s breath hitches. He opens his eyes, wide and green and shiny, and Louis kisses him, touches him more, palms his hand over Harry’s cock in his trousers. “I won’t, if you don’t want me to.” 

“No, I–” Harry starts. He blinks hard. “You can, yeah. Please.” 

“You’re sure, yeah? No rush, babe,” Louis says seriously. 

“No,” Harry whines. “Get me off, please. Like your hands.” 

Louis kisses him again, one hand carding through his hair as the other reaches between their bodies and palms Harry through his jeans. He shivers violently, and opens his eyes to meet blue. He wants to watch. He wants to see this because he doesn’t know. He’s never experienced anything likes this and porn is in a whole other realm. He watches Louis and wants him so badly. He thinks Louis is the sun and he is a flower wanting to bloom. He leans toward him, stretches and tries to gain his light. He wants to learn him and discover his secrets and his desires, and he wants him to want Harry back. 

Louis gets Harry’s cock out of jeans, and Harry is staring, he stares sat where Louis is pressing into his thigh, and he wants to touch. He’s not thinking about consequence or aftermath, he’s thinking about now, and he wonders if this is what living in the moment feels like. 

“Can I do you, too?” He gently touches Louis’ stomach. “I’ve never really done –” 

“Hey,” Louis interrupts. He bites Harry’s neck. “It’s all right. You don’t have much rules when it comes to cocks except to not bite or scratch, and do what feels good.”  Harry chokes and flushes at his crudeness, but he reaches round to squeeze Louis’ bum and kiss him again. Louis tells him to relax, right in his ear, and he’s allowed to do, too, so he lets his hands wander underneath Louis’ trousers and pants and he squeezes his bum again. He gets Louis out of his sweats and touches because he not entirely dumb. They touch their cocks together, Harry’s hand messy and uncoordinated but Louis there to still him, to kiss him. He bites at Harry’s lips and listens to the way his breath catches. He bites along Harry’s neck, sucking at his throat and leaving a mark right before his collarbone. Louis slips his thumb over the head of Harry’s cock, and then Harry’s coming over both of their hands, and he kissing Louis and stroking him still, getting him to come, too, a moan spilling from his lips and onto Harry’s skin, high pitched and breathy. 

Harry tucks himself back in his jeans and grabs a tissue from the desk to wipe their hands. They sit for a while, Harry’s back against the arm of the couch, and Louis giggles quietly before full on laughing. Harry laughs, too, and he’s not so sure why they’re laughing, but he sure as hell thinks this will be a good memory to look back on. 

When they calm down, Louis looks at him. “Okay?” 

Harry nods. “Okay.” He bites his pink lips. “Come back here,” he says, feeling brave. “I still wanna kiss you.” 

“Okay,” Louis says, so he crawls back on top and they kiss some more, quietly and gently and not at all hurriedly. Harry thinks it’s nice. He likes this feeling. 

When they stop kissing, Harry just lays with his head buried in the crook of Louis neck. He breathes deep. “You smell nice” 

Louis laughs again, his deep one that makes him smile big and his eyes crinkle. “What, like spunk?” 

Harry laughs, too, then, but waves his hand in the air. He sniffs again. “No just, your smell. Your Louis smell.” 

“Well, thank you, Harold, for paying attention to the fact that I bathe.” 

Harry laughs again, and he holds Louis closer to him. 

There’s a pause, then, a sniff. 

“You smell nice, too.” 

Harry is pretty glad that someone pays attention to the fact that he bathes, as well. 

Later, they make quesadillas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you're enjoying! i honestly appreciate any feedback, thank you so much for any comments/kudos  
> :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took forever :/ I hope you like it either way !

Harry might be a little nervous, maybe. He’s thinking about Louis mostly, like he has been lately. The soft smile and warm lips and bright eyes. He feels a bruise on his neck all week, and when his mum asks about “that boy” who smiles at him when he gets out of the car at art and has been coming over, she doesn’t mention the lovebite or the blushing dimpled grin. She does smile back, though, warmly. Harry gets a flutter in his stomach. 

He’s a little nervous because, well, he had his hand on Louis’ cock last week and he hasn’t seen him face-to-face since, so he thinks he has the right to be a little anxious. He spends the morning watering the garden because he can’t think of anything else to keep his mind otherwise occupied. He finds poppies and puts them in his hair, and he prunes the dead leaves and plucks weeds from the ground. When he reaches the roses, they’re so stunning that he has to just stand there and admire the way they’re unfolding. 

He’s growing all different colors, which is not something he usually does. Harry likes organization, but he also has a soft spot for roses and all the colors they come in. The roses are the only flowers in his garden that come out of his color scheme. But they’re beautiful, today, soft like a sunset, but bright, too. Harry can’t help himself when he clips one with his pruners and cuts off the thorns. He can think of something else that’s soft and bright, too. So he takes it. 

Nerves aside, he’s excited, too. His leg bounces the whole way in the car, and he parts with a kiss on his mum’s cheek and a flush already on his cheeks. He finds Louis straight away, in the same place they were set up the week before, and his hair is tousled and gorgeous, the sunlight making him gleam like he’s a star that Harry wants to orbit. He’s got shorts on, covered in paint, and his shirt is white and tight against his chest. (Also covered in paint.) He walks in his direction, waving a bit, and Louis grins back at him, tipping down his sunglasses, raising his eyebrows, and putting them back on his face again. Harry blushes brighter, and Louis laughs at him. He clutches his rose in his hand. 

Once Harry reaches his side, Louis is wrapping an arm around his waist and kissing him in front of everyone. Harry wants to seize up, but Louis makes little windshield wiper patterns against his hipbones, and when he pulls back, he whispers in Harry’s ear, “Relax, darling.” Harry thinks of all the people around them, but when he looks around, no one is looking back. “No one cares, yeah?” Louis looks him in the eye until he nods, and then he pecks gently on the lips again. 

“Hey, Lou?” Harry says. 

“Yeah, Harry?” 

“Here,” Harry murmurs, and he thrusts the rose from where it’s still curled in his grasp, and Louis blinks. He stares with bright eyes, and it takes a moment for a smile to spread across his face. He grasps the rose firmly and makes a noise of content when he holds it up to his nose to smell. Harry smiles back and blushes again, and Louis kisses him, just once more. They watch each other for a few moments, look at each other’s eyes and bodies and expressions changing. 

Then Louis takes the liberty to get their show on the road, and Harry is thankful. “Now,” Louis starts, sitting dramatically in his chair. “How do you want me?” He dips his head back dramatically, tucking the stem of his rose under his thigh, and Harry just laughs at him, feeling a strange soar of affection and fondness in his tummy. 

“Just sit like you normally would. I want your profile.” 

Louis doesn’t move his body, but touches his hands to his face, fingers on the bridge of his nose. “Sunglasses – yay or nay?” 

“I would say leave ‘em,” Harry decides after looking,“because they suit you–” Harry quite likes Louis in the aviators, “– but I want your eyelashes and the slope of your nose. So off they go.” 

Louis chirps, “Okay,” and folds them up, tucking them into his shirt collar. Harry just stands there for a moment, looking down at his canvas and his easel and then back at Louis. He studies him, wanting to memorize the contours of his visage and the shadows of his eyelashes and the arch of his cheekbones. Harry thinks he’s never met anyone more beautiful. “Hey,” Louis murmurs. Harry meets his eye. “Come ‘ere.” Harry crouches down in front of Louis, places his hands on his knees for balance. 

“What?” Harry asks. 

Louis leans forward and presses his lips to Harry’s forehead. “Let loose a little, yeah? Just paint what you see.” Harry knows he’s talking about more than just his eyes. Harry nods, and he watches the way Louis eyes sparkle. So he sits and watches the way Louis laughs when Harry cracks a bad joke or smiles at the wind in his hair, and he does the best to paint what he sees. 

*** 

It takes him a while, even just to draw. He has to clench his fist around his pencil and take deep breaths, because the thing about people is that it’s hard to get every little thing right. Everyone is so unique, with their imperfections and flaws and things that make them special, and Harry finds it so hard to get all of those things onto a canvas. He always finds the need to draw every last detail, to make the person _them_ , but the way Louis keeps smiling at him calms his frustration, and sometimes Louis will squeeze his fingers and it feels like a dam breaking and letting the serenity in. 

It’s quiet almost the whole time, as he draws, unable to break the focus of his eyes darting all over Louis face and the hair in his eyes and the shadows that eyelashes cast on his cheeks. Once he finishes and feels satisfied enough, the mood lightens immediately. They can talk as he mixes colors because that’s easy. He doesn’t have to focus as hard. He feels more lighthearted. 

So he says, “Tell me a story.” He _tap tap taps_ his palette knife on the tray table as he thinks of what colors to mix. 

“About who?” Louis asks. 

“Anyone,” Harry murmurs, instead of the _you_ he wanted to say. He swirls burnt umber and cadmium orange to get the golden color of Louis‘ skin, and he holds it up to his cheek to see if it matches. 

“Anyone?” Louis repeats dubiously. 

“Anyone,” Harry says.   

“Zayn and Liam said they’re going on a vacation in France this summer,” Louis starts. A warm smile spreads across his face, and Harry wants to take a picture so he can paint him like that. He wants to paint every expression he has. Louis laughs, then, at whatever he’s thinking. “I want to wow them with my French skills so they can envy me.” His voice goes mockingly serious. 

“Do you even have any French skills?” Harry retorts, wiping his palette knife on a paper towel and starting to mix the browns for Louis’ hair. 

“Yes, but they’re very limited. Still skills, though,” Louis muses. He scratches his nose, and Harry sees him hold himself back from turning from his pose. 

“Demonstrations are needed,” Harry demands, using his brush to mix liquin into the paints, knowing how many layers he’s going to have to paint and how fast it’s going to need to dry. 

“Uhhh, je m’appelle Louis, et tu as des beaux yeux.” 

“And do I get a translation?” Harry asks, blushing already because he recognized _beaux_ , and he wonders what Louis is talking about. 

“My name is Louis, and you have beautiful eyes.” Harry looks at his turned in feet and blushes harder. Damn his fair skin. 

“Do you know anything else?” he asks, pushing past the compliment because he’s not sure how to respond. 

“I can order an egg on toast, tea, and say someone has a pretty bum, but that’s about the extent of it. At least off the top of my head.” 

Harry laughs lightly, feels free. “So you plan on charming me by saying I’ve got beautiful eyes and a nice bum?” (He says nothing about his inward thoughts on going on a vacation to France with Louis.) 

Louis shrugs. “More or less.” 

Harry laughs again and mixes hues and tints for the highlights and shadows. “Tell me another.” 

“I told loads last week,” Louis whines, sounding like a petulant child. “Tell me about you.” 

“I haven’t got any good stories,” Harry says, not meeting his eyes. 

“Bollocks,” Louis says. “Everyone’s got at least _one_. And I never said good stories. It could be the worst story I’ve ever heard, but it’d still be you talking, right? Now go on. I’m curious, Harold.” 

Harry thinks for a moment, as he keeps folding the brown in on itself even though it’s well passed mixed. He likes the sensation of the oils and the scrape of the knife on the tray table. “When I was fourteen, me and Niall ran down my street naked. Just for fun. Granted, it was three a.m. and my neighborhood is mainly grans, but still. Quite the adrenaline rush. I think I was hopped up on Redbull, because I don’t remember what made me say yes to doing it.” 

Louis laughs hard. “Maybe we can do something crazy. We should hand out Goldfish to strangers.” 

“Would people accept live fish?” Harry wonders. 

“Probably not, but I was referring to the delicacy. The crackers. The snack that smiles back.” 

“Oh. People would definitely accept that. I don’t know how crazy it is, though. They might think we’re drugging them. Can you drug Goldfish?” 

Louis pauses and thinks, concentration working its way onto his face. “Probably. I’m sure we could find away. Regardless,” he starts, waving the drugs and the lack of crazy off his shoulder, “we’re not drugging them, so we should to it.” 

“We should,” Harry agrees, and they’re silent again, after that. 

Louis speaks up after a while, and Harry had been watching his eyes flick over to his own for a few moments, but waited until he brought up whatever was on his mind. “Hey, Harry?” Louis asks. 

Harry hums as he paints a stroke of brown in Louis’ hair, but looks up to give him his full attention and as to not mess up. “Yeah?” he reiterates. 

“What kind of flowers are in your hair?” Louis asks. 

Harry touches up and remembers the poppies he’d grabbed while watering the garden, and just where he’d stuck them. “Oh. They’re poppies.” He laughs. “I’d completely forgotten about them. Feels like I always have some twisted up there.” 

“It’s cute,” Louis murmurs. Harry blushes (again). “Do you know anything special about the poppies?” 

Harry remember his pansy facts and ducks his head. “Not much. Legend has it they symbolize death.” 

“Well, that’s not too bright.” 

Harry laughs. “No, not at all. But they’re perennials! So they grow back every year.” 

“Do you know anything else?” 

“I’m sure you know Remembrance Day, and the whole poppy-on-lapel deal, correct?” 

“I’m not _daft_.” 

Harry laughs. “Next time I’ll have a happier flower. 

Louis nods in agreement, then laughs, and they’re quiet again. 

Harry’s vision even gets blurry with his sunglasses, and when he looks up for too long he gets those spots in his vision of all different colors, and when he looks back at his canvas he sees them there, too. So he paints what he sees, because Louis told him to and that’s exactly how he sees him. Louis is the color that follows Harry everywhere. 

So he makes Louis as bright as he sees him. He ignores the dullness of the background, the monotonous black, and he paints the color that follows Louis. He takes the rambunctious aura that seems to follow Louis around and turns it into color. His tongue pokes out of his mouth while he paints, and he can hear Louis giggling at him, and he can see the twitch in his lips. Harry loves it, and he does the best he can to get it onto canvas. He likes painting like this. He doesn’t feel strapped down or inundated with this constant pressure to make everything how it is. Because, he realizes, he can make things however they want to be. 

When he’s finished, there is no weight on his chest like there often is after painting. There’s no pressure or worry about being perfect, because perfect Louis is right before him, and this is how he sees him. He likes it so much that he doesn’t want to file it in his stacks of paintings. Everyone is almost done clearing out when Harry stretches up in completion, so they clean up quickly, and Louis kisses him right on the mouth when he sees it. 

“It’s so fucking beautiful, Harry,” he says into Harry’s lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” 

Harry pulls him in by the hips, and his hands are greedy on his bum and lower back. They kiss sloppily once they know everyone is long gone, and Louis bites at his lower lip. They’re loud and ridiculous, lips sliding together and giggles pouring from their mouth just in a moment of pure elation. Harry feels electric, unstoppable, and the warm press of Louis’ body against his is comforting, and he wants to keep it there forever. One of the flowers in his hair falls onto Louis’ shoulder, so he picks it up and sticks it in Louis’ mussed up fringe, but it falls again. 

“I told you they don’t like me,” Louis breathes into his mouth, laughing and licking at his tongue, trying to hold back his smile so he can kiss properly. Harry’s smiling too, though, so it’s the messiest kiss they’ve had by far, but it’s also one of his favorites. He needs him closer. Always closer. 

“Take me back to the shed?” Harry asks. He leans close to Louis’ ear and tries not to stammer. “I wanna – can I suck you off? When we get there?” 

“Are you sure?” Louis breathes, voice going immediately lower. “You don’t–” 

“I want to,” Harry says, and Louis takes his hand that doesn’t have the painting in it, and they run to his shitty old car, giddy and happy, and Harry feels free.   

*** 

They’re on the couch, and Louis’ shorts and pants are on the floor, and Harry’s curled between his legs and looking up at him with bright green eyes, wide and glassy, and lips bitten pink and swollen. Louis cards a hand through Harry’s hair and scratches at his scalp. Harry mewls.   

“You all right, love?” 

Harry nods. “Yeah. I just wanna–” And he takes the head into his mouth, and he watches as Louis’ head tips back and his eyes flutter shut. 

“Don’t do anything you don’t want to, yeah?” Louis manages to get out. 

Harry pulls off from where he was sucking on the head with a wet sound. “I won’t. But I want to.” 

He takes the tip back into his mouth again, hand gripping the base and trying to do what he’s seen in porn. He suckles gently and pumps his hand. He starts slow, taking the hands that are still rubbing in his hair and the whispered words coming from Louis’ mouth as praise. He bobs his head a little, and he watches the way the muscles in Louis’ stomach clench when he sucks hard and runs his hands along the smooth skin of his thighs. He runs his tongue over the slit and shudders when Louis groans. He goes as deep as he can after a few moments, bobbing his head and looking up at Louis just to watch his face, and his eyes flutter open, bright blue and blown. He’s stunning. 

“Shit, Harry, you’re good,” Louis gets out, fingers twisting a little harder. 

Harry whines around Louis cock and sucks hard, and he manages to go deeper, getting his nose to Louis’ stomach and feeling a burn as his cockhead touches the back of his throat. He loves it. He loves way he’s making Louis feel, and he thinks this might be something he’ll look back on. 

Louis tries to warn him when he’s going to come, but Harry stays down, because if he’s doing this, he’s doing it right. He swallows when Louis comes down his throat, splutters a little, and slowly eases off the tip. He looks up with wide eyes wondering if it was all right. 

“Can I kiss you? After that?” Harry asks, and Louis yanks him up his body. 

“Of course. Fuck.” They kiss languidly, and Harry distantly wonders if Louis can taste himself in his mouth. Harry feels warm all over, like the colors Louis bleeds are seeping into him. He’s not thinking about the have done or the will do, he’s thinking about the here and the now, and his cock pressing into Louis’ thigh and the way their breaths are mingling, and how Louis won’t stop running his hands through Harry’s hair and how Harry won’t stop whimpering when he tugs a little. The poppies that he’d tucked there fall awry and on their bare chests and on the couch, and they sprinkle throughout the floor. Harry can’t bring himself to care. 

For once, he doesn’t feel so panicky. His heart isn’t racing in the dread of the tomorrow or the thought of yesterday. He doesn’t feel so alone, either. He thinks that maybe Louis is a constant, because the weight of his body underneath him surely doesn’t feel like it’s going anywhere, and maybe his armies are down. Maybe his walls are being left unguarded. 

And he’s okay with that. He feels safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Every comment and kudos means a million. :*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Hope you enjoy!

They lay there, for a while. They don’t talk because they don’t have to. Harry’s head rests on Louis’ chest and he can hear the thumping of Louis’ heart in his ear, and he feels the gentle in and out of his breath. He lets his eyes flutter shut and his mind shut down, only focusing on the _in out_ of Louis’ diaphragm and the gentle carding of hands through his hair, the scratch at his scalp. 

“Hey, Harry?” Louis asks out of nowhere, his voice making his chest send vibrations and Harry’s head receive them. Harry presses his fingers into Louis’ hip. 

“Yeah, Lou?” Harry responds, voice soft like the skin under his fingertips. He’s tired and Louis is warm and this is the nicest he’s felt in a while. 

“What’s your dream vacation place? Like, if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you want to go?” Another thing about Louis that Harry likes is his unpredictability. It’s not to an extent where Harry is lost, but he’s kept on his toes; constantly guessing and being surprised but never disappointed. He lightly drags his nails along Louis’ hip. 

“Somewhere by the sea,” Harry answers honestly, thinking back to the times when they talked about the oceans together, the water. Harry wants to paint the sea. 

Louis laughs fondly, and it rattles Harry’s head on his chest. “Which one, love?”

Harry traces a pattern on the sharp jut of Louis’ hipbone in thought. “The Caribbean, maybe? I’ve always wanted to see water like that. Bluer than blue. Like it’s not even real.”

“Mmhh,” Louis hums in agreement. “I’d love that too. I’d even die to go the Mediterranean, as well. France must be lovely.”

“And Greece and Italy,” Harry supplies. Their hands meet each other’s once Louis fingers retract from Harry’s hair, and Harry folds their palms together and twists their fingers. He can feel Louis’ pulse on his wrist. It’s comforting. 

“I want to see everything,” Louis sighs wistfully. “Travel has always been a fantasy of mine, y’know? Going to places and not having to know anything or anyone and learning everything you can and seeing new things and meeting new people. Sounds like a dream come true.”

“Travel would be nice,” Harry says, voice still quiet. 

“One day, I’d reckon,” Louis murmurs. “If you’ve got dreams, I say go for it, yeah? What’ve you got to lose?”

Harry doesn’t think he’s got all that much. “I love the way you think,” Harry lets slip. 

“What, with no filter?” Louis laughs. 

“No, just– your optimism and happiness, and stuff. I’m jealous, honestly,” Harry admits. Louis takes his free hand to card through Harry’s hair again, and he presses a sloppy kiss to his temple. “It makes me wonder if I’ll ever be able to do that. To think like that.”

He hums warmly and whispers, “One day, I’d reckon.” 

And Harry grins wider than ever. 

He isn’t sure how long it’s been when Louis reaches into his pocket to pull out his mobile. He checks the time and sighs heavily. 

“Babe,” he murmurs gently. “I’ve got to go.”

Harry whines and presses their bodies closer together. “But you’re warm.”

Louis chuckles, and Harry can feel it in his chest. “Go get some sun, then. It’s a gorgeous day. Sun’s warmer than me, believe it or not.” 

Harry wants to pout and say _you are the sun,_ but instead he sits up and allows Louis to stand from his couch. His hair is ruffled and his cheeks are still a little pink, but he’s as golden as ever. Disheveled slightly, perhaps, yet as composed and charming as always. Harry watches him pull on his shirt with a guilty lower lip sucked into his mouth, and he can’t help it when he blurts out, “You’re gorgeous.” He turns pink just after he says it, and he gets the strange urge to cover up his bare chest with the blanket after he lets it out. 

Louis does his little chuckle thing again and eases out the wrinkles on his paint-covered shirt. He leans down to Harry’s level and braces his hands on Harry’s knees. “Back at you, darlin’,” he murmurs with a big grin, smoothing back Harry’s hair and kissing behind his ear and along his jaw. “See you soon, yeah?” Harry nods, pecks him once. When Louis makes to leave after standing, he grabs Louis’ wrist on a whim. “What’s up?”

“Just – before you go. I want to paint, but I don’t know what.”

Louis smiles at him again, takes his hand where it’s around his wrist and plays with his fingers. Harry stands to look at him. “Paint what you feel, Harry.”

“Okay,” Harry says, not even thinking twice because for once he’s feeling a mantra of fondness and that’s about it. He decides to act on it, kissing Louis again and slowly backing him up towards the door. He’s eager to want, to like, and to be attached, and Louis roams his hands on his bare back, licks into his mouth, and holds him close. He pulls back, and Harry whines.

“I’ve really got to go, babe.” He kisses Harry’s cheek. “Text me.”

Harry think he most certainly will, and watches Louis part from his shed, hair still mussed up and cheeks a little flushed. He flops back onto the couch once Louis is gone, and then he’s not really sure what to do. _Paint what you feel,_ Louis said. What does he feel, anyway? How do you paint a feeling? Harry scrubs a hand across his face and tucks his feet up under his legs. His eyes roams the room that he already has memorized, and then he remembers those paints from all those weeks ago – the ones he’d mixed of all different colors, too bright for him then, but maybe suiting now. 

He goes to the freezer where they still reside. The palette is still there, and the paints have a little hardened crust on them, but after scraping them around a little, blobs of colors that seem to only reflect happiness sit before him. So he paints what he feels. He takes a canvas no bigger than his head and doesn’t outline a thing. He paints colors and hues that he’s never thought to mix. He paints with no reference other than his own mind, and that’s what scares him. His mind is a place he doesn’t like to stay in for too long because the things that live there are like the monsters under his bed from when he was six years old. 

This is not how he works. He doesn’t just _paint._ He doesn’t paint his mind or his heart because he feels like those are the things that nobody should have to see, like death and tragedy. He almost malfunctions, hand clenching around his brush before his canvas is even half full, and he drops it and almost spills his turpentine. All the feelings that swarm him are overwhelming – feelings for Louis and feelings about his life. So he panics, and while he wants to express himself, he’s not too sure he likes the outcome. He doesn’t think he’ll like what he sees.

He fists his hands in his hair and turns the canvas upside down on the easel. His skin itches and he gets the urge to rip it off to make that feeling go away. Harry’s head winds up in his hands, and he cries. Not heart-wrenching sobs or hitches that leave him breathless, just silent tears that slip down his cheeks and the throb in his temple that swallows him whole. 

It’s the fear that makes him squirm. The undefined mystery of what’s going to happen and every possibility and the knowledge of truth that everyone is going to die or leave or change make him hold onto his own bare arms and wish the world away. His anxiety spikes because he doesn’t _know._ He doesn’t know what’s happening know or what happened before or what’s going to happen tomorrow, and that’s the most petrifying part. He stares at the walls of his shed and the rumpled blanket on the couch and his paint-covered shirt on the floor. He looks at where the door of his painting room is cracked open and at the sticky note with a smiley face that Louis drew on it stuck to his computer. A shudder runs through him, but the tears stop and it feels like his heart does, too. 

Harry makes his way to the couch, and he curls himself into the blanket that smells like Louis and sex. He closes his eyes but does not expect sleep. He thinks of the past six weeks. He thinks of Louis with his optimistic charm and the way he’s managed to make Harry less self-depreciating and less confined in his own mind. 

_I just paint lines and colors and stuff ‘cause it’s fun._

_I’ve always liked mystery. Kind of why I like you. You’re a mystery, Harry._

_I know you’re afraid, Harry. You’re afraid of me, you’re afraid of my compliments. I’m sure you’re afraid of other things. It’s okay, though. I’m curious. Don’t feel obliged to answer, Harry Styles, I’m just intrusive._

_We need you to open your eyes. It’s all about memory, Haz. Not to live in the past, but to live in the moment so when you do look at those things that have already happened, you have something good to look back on._

_Let loose a little, yeah?_

_You’re so fucking beautiful._

Harry hates himself, a little. Because Louis is the kind of energy that he can’t completely wrap his head around entirely, but he likes it. He likes the way Louis works and lives and how he’s always sunny and positive. He’s everything that Harry envies in people. He thinks of how his pretty fringe falls across his forehead and how his eyes are always bright, and Harry presses his face into the couch’s big cushions. With a shaky breath, he stands, making to throw away the paints he didn’t finish using and to reorganize the ones he should’ve. It takes him all afternoon, cleaning up. He makes sure everything is in line and in order, and he washes the blanket where Louis called him lovely, and only after everything is in order does he relax. 

It’s evening by the time he’s done, so he sits on the bench in his garden and wonders if Louis would’ve been able to make him calm down, too, but when the answer is yes he only becomes frenzied again. He goes to his room and tells his mum that he isn’t hungry, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, thinking that he’s better at hiding than anything else. He hides and shields so much that he doesn’t know who he is. He hates the way he feels and hates the way it’s his fault. His walls go up like an army under attack, and Harry does not catch one wink of sleep the entire night, only thoughts of _what if what if what if,_ and maybe life is better is in solitude. 

The next morning, with bags under his eyes and weight in his bones, he sits outside and spends time looking at the ivy and watching the flowers because they can’t walk away. 

***

The panic attacks don’t stop. He spends time breathing. Telling himself _in, out._ Telling himself to not choke. He tries to focus on his lessons even though maths is a pain in his arse and summer’s nearly here anyway. He tries not to scratch at his skin or to look at the paintings he hates. 

A cycle begins. Harry doesn’t show up to art class, and Louis texts him and calls him throughout the week, but he always feels to frozen to answer or reply. He’s not sure what’s stopping him. Maybe it’s fear. But it’s as though his hands are bound to his side and his motivation to answer is unattainable. So eventually, Louis stops calling and texting, and the rational part of Harry reasons that it might be Louis respecting his boundaries, but the bigger, more irrational part of him says that Louis has given up on him like everything else will. Harry doesn’t show up for another week. He spends most of those two weeks crying and watching nature, and it vaguely reminds him of life before art class. Funny that. (Harry doesn’t find it funny at all.)

At one point, his mum puts a hand on his shoulder while he sips tea at breakfast. “Harry,” she says. 

Harry looks up from where was staring down at his milky English Breakfast that’s too sweet for this kind of day. He rubs his eyes. “Yeah, Mum?”

“Why aren’t you going to class today? I know you didn’t feel well last week, but shouldn’t you be getting ready soon?”

Harry huffs and stirs the spoon in his mug. It clinks annoyingly. He sighs. “I just don’t want to go today, mum. I’m tired and –” He flounders for another excuse. He picks at a raisin in his toast and flicks it to the other side of his plate. “I just don’t want to go today,” he repeats lamely. 

She looks at him concernedly. She turns the stove off from where she was stirring eggs with a wooden spoon and walks over to Harry’s side. She smooths her hands through his unruly bed head. “Is it that boy, Harry?”

He stiffens under her. “No,” he breathes, and it’s not a lie but it’s also not entirely the truth, either. “He’s lovely.” That’s as honest as he can get. 

“Why hasn’t he been around in two weeks then, darling? Has something happened?”

“No, Mum,” Harry says tiredly. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Anne repeats. “What’s up, love? You can talk to me.”

“I know I can. I know. It’s just the usual stuff, y’know. Thoughts and everything. I’m fine though. Louis’ fine. Everything’s fine.” Harry knows he doesn’t sound genuine in the least, but he really is tired, and he really doesn’t want to talk to anyone at the moment. He doesn’t feel like exposing himself raw and getting that burning feeling in the back of his throat when he’s about to cry or having his eyes stay red for the whole day like they always do. He doesn’t want his voice to crack or to get that wretched feeling that makes him feel insane. He hates that the most – that twinge of hopelessness that makes him feel entirely crazy and as though no one could ever relate to him. It makes him feel like he’s going to throw up, and so completely and utterly alone. He doesn’t want that now. Doesn’t need it. “I would tell you if it’s anything important. I’ll go next week, yeah?” He’s not so sure, but for the sake of seeing the worry lines on his mother’s face disappear for a while longer, he’ll say anything. 

He watches her relax. “All right, darling. If you need anything, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Mum. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Harry,” she murmurs, and she smooths back his hair again, presses a kiss to the very top of his forehead, and whispers, “Go relax.”

Harry tries his very best. 

***

Niall appears once, full of energy and a little bit hyperactive, again apologizing about his absence. He blabbers on about school for a while, and the fit girl he’s been chatting up and dancing with at the parties. (“Which you really should come to, Harry. They’re such a blast! Always a good laugh. Sometimes they let me DJ and everyone just fucking jams, mate.”) He goes on about the parties for a while. He whines about homework but has a big smile on his face when he realizes that school’s almost over and there’s not going to be too much of it for the next two weeks. Harry spends most of his time just listening intently, picking at his nails and meeting Niall’s eyes only when direly necessary.

Niall asks about “that boy” that Harry was on about a few weeks ago, and he says nothing. His face is blank, and he wishes his mind was, too. He’s withdrawn, and Niall says to him, “What’s up, Harry? You usually keep me posted, man!”

Harry’s quiet for a few moments more, and he can feel Niall’s fear and worry. He bites his lip before asking, “Are you going to leave me, Niall?”

“Well, I’ve got dinner at half six, so in a bit, yeah.”

And Harry can’t help the small grin – but also the biggest in two weeks – that crosses his face, because it’s Niall. Niall who is sunshine on a cloudy day and the kid who dances in the rain. His smile falls quickly, though. He fiddles with his fingers and looks over at where Niall is sprawled in the grass and the sunlight is reflecting off his Ray Bans. Harry pulls a dandelion from the grass, one of the last of them. “But like, eventually. Will you walk away from me?” he asks quietly. He hates this conversation; he hates it already, but he figures that there’s not turning back now. He tries not to bite his lip too hard. 

Niall sighs heavily, picks at the grass. Harry wonders if he’s tired of him. “You’re my best mate, Harry,” Niall starts. “People are complicated things, and I guess it’s kind of looking for the little, important things in life. Those are the ones that matter. It’s a hard thing to do, I know. Especially when you’re wired a little differently, and y’know, everyone is, a bit. But keep your eyes peeled, yeah? The good things are there, mate.” There’s a pause. Harry’s heard things like this before, but not an overwhelming amount. There aren’t too many people around to tell him so. He’s quiet, but mulling it over. “Like pints, Harry. Those are good things.” 

And they laugh, and Harry stops and thinks. There might be good things, yeah.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos actually mean the world to me; if you have time to leave anything you'd be making my day. :D I really hope you like it! Not too many chapters left!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay guys i am _so_ sorry for the delay, my last month of school has been very hectic, and i'm in the middle of finals right now! i get out at the end of the week but i am away for a lot of the summer. i hope i get updates in regardless! either way, i hope you enjoy and sorry again.

“Harry.” 

He rolls a bit, grunts.

“Harry, love.”  The voice is sweet, warm. Harry swims in it. 

“Harry, darling. You’ve got to wake up. It’s half eleven.”

Harry groans, but stirs in his bed. He finds his mum at the edge of his mattress where it has dipped with her weight once he opens his eyes. 

“Why’ve I got to be awake?” is the first thing that spills from his lips. 

“It’s Saturday,” Anne murmurs, like it’s an explanation. 

“So?” Harry mumbles, wanting to curl further into his duvet and for the warmth emanating from his bed to envelope him and never part. 

“Art, Harry,” she says, and well, _oh._ It’s not that Harry had forgotten, because thoughts about Louis and class and every single word Niall had said to him had been plaguing him all week. It just happened to be within the first five minutes of his waking, and more often than not, food and a toothbrush were the immediate things on his mind. 

“Oh,” Harry lets out. 

“Please, darling, you’ve got to go. We’re paying, you know? I’ve let it go for two weeks, but I think it’s good for you. And you always seem so happy when you come back.”

That’s the truth, there. Harry does always come back happy from art, because Louis has the kind of happiness that’s infectious and a smile that he has to smile back at and a laugh that makes giggles spill from his lips. His encouragements are like a lifeline, and maybe Harry’s feeling better this week. Maybe with a little bit of pep talks and a whole lot of tea, he’ll be able to fight the clench in his stomach and the doubt in the back of his mind so he can finally make up for what an arse he’s been. He takes a deep, shuddery breath and sits up. Anne’s eyes hold worry, but Harry touches her hand gently where it rests on his leg. 

“I’ll go, mum. I’ve just got to get dressed. Would you mind making me some English Breakfast? In one of the to-go cups?” Anne smiles and nods, and Harry can _see_ the relief pour from her expression. “I’ll be down in ten minutes, yeah?”

“Take your time, love,” his mum says, and she stands and presses a gentle kiss to Harry’s forehead, letting the door slip silently closed after she parts. 

Harry dresses quickly, thanking his lucky stars that the rain’s passed once again, and he briefly wonders how they’ve scored such lovely weather on the Saturdays they paint. He pulls on paint jeans and an old Rolling Stones tee, grabs his sunglasses from his night table, and spares a few seconds to look at the schedule to see where they’re painting today. He sees that it’s the field they painted in on the first day, and he wonders why they’re going back if they’ve already been. 

***

When he gets there, he sees why. 

The field is nothing like it was a couple months ago. It’s no longer the soft pinks and warm yellows that mark beginning, but it’s now bright purples and vibrant greens that signify growth, and Harry thinks there’s never been any metaphor that suits his life more. The start of summer looks him right in the face, and surely enough, so do two easels and a boy with eyes that match the sky. 

Harry sits, and right away he’s hit with a pang of remorse. He thinks about Louis setting up the easel each week, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so badly, so regretful. Yet he doesn’t apologize or speak up at all, and he stares at the field before him and squints despite his sunglasses because the sunlight makes the day shine too brightly for his feelings. He stares at the flowers, at the colors, and he thinks of how all of the ones that were here those weeks ago are dead, or they’ve gone. He thinks of how life is constantly changing, and for once he doesn’t know if that’s comforting or terrifying, for he is afraid of change but does not wish to stay like this forever. 

Harry thinks of his painting from the first day. The part of the field that he captured. He has it, and it sits in the stack of his paintings in the closet, but it’s recorded. It’s on that piece of canvas, and he thinks that maybe that’s a little comforting, to know that it’s there. Those flowers won’t die. 

Louis doesn’t speak up, either. He’s staring, mainly, but not at Harry. He’s watching the field and the flowers and the stems as they blow in the breeze. His back is slightly angled toward Harry because he’s painting a different part of the field, so their easels aren’t exactly aligned and Harry finds it hard to get a good look at his face to see his expression. He wants to know what Louis is thinking, but at the same time, he’s not so sure he does. 

Harry squirms in his seat, and the metal of the chair suddenly feels too hard. He stares at the back of Louis’ head for longer than he should, as though some force in his eyes will make Louis turn around, but eventually he gives up. He paints the field will excruciating precision, but his focus is off. He looks at Louis every time he looks up at the field for reference. They don’t speak once the entire class. 

By the end of the four hours, Harry is floundering. He doesn’t know what to say, but knows he has to say _something._ When his canvas is resting on the asphalt and his easel and paints are away, he approaches Louis with hesitant movements and soft eyes, and he says the only thing he can possibly think of. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry breathes, and there could be a million things he apologizing for, but Louis just stares at him, in a deep way that makes his weight shift from foot to foot because he can’t fathom staying still. Louis’ blue eyes blink, and Harry’s biting on his lip far too hard. A gentle hand comes up to Harry’s face, and a strand of hair is being pushed from his visage and soft lips are pressing right to the corner of his mouth. 

Harry can’t help the ghost of a smile that spreads across his face. He pinches the back of his hand where they’re pushed up against his back, out of Louis’ view. Louis seems to notices his falter, though, and he reaches out ever so gently, takes Harry’s right hand with his left, and murmurs, “We need to talk.” 

And while that phrase is never the best to hear, Harry’s hand is in Louis’ and his voice just kissed his ear. 

They sit right there in the field. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Louis requests, and his hands are carding through the tall grass that tickles at their arms, and he doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes as he speaks. 

“Not tell you why?” Harry asks, because isn’t that what they need to talk about? 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Louis says again, and Harry is going to tell him because it’s Louis. Louis, whose thoughts are ones for the manifestation of positivity and the reflection of brightness. Louis knows. Louis understands, and he can make death seem like birth and turn deterioration into rejuvenation. 

“I think,” Harry starts, and he doesn’t know where to truly begin. He pauses and looks at the sky. “I think,” he says again, “that I’m afraid.” And Harry remembers those weeks ago when Louis called him out on just that. “You know. You know me, and you know my fears. So perhaps you know that your understanding of me is one of my fears. If that– if that makes sense.” 

Louis nods, but his expression is blank and seemingly nonplussed. 

“I think–” Harry pauses. He takes a deep breath. “I think I’m almost afraid of moving up in the world. Because none of that stuff could ever really last? What’s the point of having good things happen to you if none of it stays? If it eventually turns bad?”  


Louis huffs, purses his lips. “So what you’re saying is that you would never buy good milk because it would eventually sour?” he asks. His tone is condescending.  

“No – well. If you put it like that, it sounds awful and dumb. Milk isn’t a metaphor for life.” 

Louis crosses his arms and runs his bare feet through the grass after he kicks his shoes off. “Some people might not say the sea is a metaphor for life, or the wind, but I think they are.”

Harry doesn’t have anything to say, and he wants to smile and cry at the same time. He decides to move on. “I think that I tend to build my own walls to maintain a sort of – a kind of haven, really. Somewhere that it’s comfortable, to like, have a sort of numbness. Personal solitude where I’m almost untouchable. I don’t let a lot of people in, Lou. I let you in.” Harry sucks in another heavy breath, and he cross his ankles and looks at the sky. “So I paint flowers, because all that is good in life will eventually die. And the paintings–” He bites his lip. “–they don’t.”

There’s a long pause where neither of them speak up, as if Louis knows that Harry still has more to say. “ It’s like – nothing will abandon me. That’s why I’m kind of, I don’t even know how to put it, socially dumb? I guess? I mean, it’s not even that I don’t know how to interact. I’m just–” He sighs. “I’m just scared. It all stems from fear, really. The lack of trust, ‘loner’ qualities, the hyper-awareness of beauty, all of it.” His eyes are wet by the time he’s finished. It feels like all of the energy has drained out of him, but he almost feels lighter. He hasn’t told anyone that, ever. 

Harry flops back into the grass and wipes his teary eyes. “I don’t want to be scared, Lou.” 

Harry’s stomach does a twist when Louis grabs his hand again, and there’s a squeeze tight and a pattern on the inside of his wrist. Harry takes a deep breath. Louis crawls on his knees to where Harry’s head is and sits in front of him. He pats the inside of his thigh, and Harry scoots forward so his head is in Louis’ lap. Hands immediately come into his hair and card through soothingly. Harry exhales through his nose. “Can I tell you what I think?” Louis asks softly, and his harsh expression is gone when Harry looks up. His eyes have gone soft and his features are warm, like the fingertips dragging across Harry’s skin. 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, and he turns a bit in Louis’ lap, so his lips are brushing the inside of Louis’ thigh where his shorts ride up a bit. 

“I think that everyone’s got to live in the moment. You can’t think about death when you’ve got life to live. Sure, the future’s uncertain, and the unknown can be right fucking _terrifying_ , but right here, right now, that’s _real._ And you’ve got to live it, Harry.” His tone is fierce, and Harry can see what his eyes look like without actually meeting them. Harry wants to kiss him. He stays put though, because he knows he’s not done. “I think that you’ve got to work with what you have _now._ Y’know? Things come and go, people come and go, but memories never really leave, or at least, if they’re important, they won’t. That’s how I see it.”

Harry has never felt so passionately about anyone. He loves Louis’ mind. He curls his hand around Louis’ wrist and feels his pulse, waits for him to speak more. 

“I think that death is kind of something that people have to accept. Like, no matter what, it’s gonna happen, yeah? We ruin the present by thinking of the past, and the future. You can only shape the present. That’s the only tangible part of life – when you’re actually living it. Daring to do is what makes life, and mortality makes appreciate more. Being conscious of death kind of makes everything more special. It makes me want to do everything, to see everything, to meet the best kind of people.” Louis leans down close to his ear. “Like you,” he whispers, and he sits back up. Harry shivers. “You’ve got to do, Harry.”  
“I want to,” Harry says back, and he lets every bit of Louis’ words sink in, and he feels like he’s floating in the field of flowers with Louis’ hands still moving through his hair. They don’t say much after that, and the hands in his hair still after another few seconds. Harry opens his eyes to see why. Louis just looks at him, blue eyes wide, and he flicks his gaze up. Harry takes that as a command to sit up, and as soon as he does, Louis lays back and and pats his thighs. 

“Kiss me in the flowers,” Louis says, and Harry does. As soon as their lips meet though, Louis taps Harry’s cheek to move him away. “No thinking, though,” he whispers. The sunlight casts highlights into his hair and shadows onto his face. Harry thinks he’s never seen anyone more beautiful. 

“No thinking,” Harry agrees, and it smells like summer and feels a little like love when they kiss. Their lips are warm and so is the sun casting energy and light onto their skin and backs and into every inch of their body. A deluge of zeal floods through Harry’s body; the heat doesn’t part. 

They kiss for minutes or hours or a time frame that doesn’t matter. When they separate, Harry’s lips are painted cherry and his hair is marked with Louis’ touch and his body is flush with his spirit. He crawls off his lap and tucks into his side. Harry watches the sky, and he thinks that Louis might be watching him but he doesn’t look. 

It’s quiet besides their breathing and the birds and the wind. 

“Date me,” Louis says out of nowhere. Spontaneity at it’s finest; Louis in a nutshell. 

Harry thinks for a moment, but no longer than that. He presses his lips to Louis’ warm shoulder where his shirt has slipped down and murmurs, “Yes,” and he has never felt more alive. 

***

They kiss in the field for a long time, and finally Louis has no obligations after art like he tends to have. They spend the day in Harry’s shed watching _Skins_ on Netflix and snogging and tracing patterns on each other’s legs. The fall asleep on the couch underneath the blanket that Harry doesn’t want to wash again. When Harry wakes up, his eyes are bleary and Louis’ mouth is on his ear whispering, “Harry, darling, you’ve got to wake up,” and he’s vaguely reminding of the previous morning, but instead of his mum, it’s Louis. His eyes are too bright for such an early hour, and as Harry’s vision clears the clock on the television box tells him it’s four thirty. 

“Louis –  _what?_ ” 

Louis litters kisses all over Harry’s cheeks. “Wake up, love. We’ll get some tea and brush our teeth, but we’ve really got to go. Sunrise is soon, and we want to be there for it!” Louis twines their fingers together and helps Harry up. He wraps Harry in his sweatshirt that was in his car the day before and rubs his shoulders twice as though it will warm him up and drags him out of the shed. 

“Wait!” Harry whisper-shouts. “Be where?”

They creep quietly into the back of Harry’s house, and Louis presses a warm pair of lips to his face once they’re in the kitchen. 

“The top of the hill, in the park.”

“What hill in which park?”

“Darling, you’ll see,” Louis murmurs. He puts the kettle on and walks out of the kitchen, knowing Harry will trail behind. “Let’s just brush our teeth and have a cuppa, and you’ll be all energized. It’s so fun, Harry. You’ll love it.”

And Harry still hasn’t a clue what he’s blabbing about, but. But he trusts Louis, so they brush their teeth and make their tea and drive to the park. Before they walk to the hill, Louis pops the boot and grabs something.

“Are those – are those _yoga_ mats?” Harry exclaims.

Louis nods excitedly. “Sure are,” he says, slamming the trunk shut again and giving Harry the purple one while he holds onto orange. 

“Sunrise yoga?” Harry asks. 

Louis nods again, and he takes Harry’s hand. “It’s beautiful. No thinking. Just watch and feel and be, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry agrees, and they walk to the hill.  The sky is not yet illuminated, but Harry can tell that the sunrise is looming. Once they have their mats spread out in the soft, dewey grass, Harry follows Louis’ directions and discovers one thing: he can’t do yoga. 

He falls all over the place and bends too far. His feet turn in and his hair is in his eyes, and really – it’s a mess. Louis laughs at him but smooths his curls from his eyes when he topples over for a final time and seats himself on Harry’s lap. Harry’s chest rumbles with laughter, and he can see Louis shaking with it. His grin is bright, and the sun rises behind him, irradiating the whole sky with oranges and yellows and reds and pinks. And it’s the most beautiful thing Harry has seen. 

Louis looks like he’s on fire, the backdrop of renewal and rebirth opening up behind him. Harry can’t breathe. He pulls Louis down on top of him, and kisses him so soundly and so surely. Harry wants to do, and the grip Louis has on his wrist and the brush of their lips and the sunrise behind them says that Louis is going to do, too, right with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think! all feedback is lovely and i respect every opinion. i hope you liked it :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys!! i've only realized that this is the last chapter aside from the epilogue! i'm almost sad to see the characters go, for sure. i can't believe i've got another chaptered fic close to done! i really hope you enjoyed the ride, guys, and i hope you like this chapter. love you all, as always.

"Stop thinking." The voice is hot on his ear, and the air around them feels just the same. It's a good kind of warmth that makes Harry's skin swim and mind haze.

"M'not," Harry breathes out, foggy and focused on the hips touching his, the weight on top of his lap. 

"You are," Louis whispers. "I know you."

_I know you_. Harry never thought he'd like the sound of that. 

"But I'm thinking about you," Harry says, only because it's true. "Your arse in my lap, kissing you, your eyes."

"My eyes, hmm?" He blatantly chooses to ignore the arse. Bastard. Louis moves his lips from where they were easing along is jaw to the bow of Harry's lips, barely brushing and giving Harry goosebumps. He flutters his eyelashes like he knows what it's doing to Harry, and he opens his eyelids to expose a bright, shiny blue that makes Harry's heart race so fast in his chest that he's sure Louis can feel it. "What about them?"

Harry hates him. He hates him so much. He lets out a little whine because he can't control this strange mixture of frustration and lust that's coursing through him. He squeezes Louis' bum as an answer, and Louis gives him a pointed look. 

"Hands to yourself, love," he mutters.

Harry hates him. He drops his hands, and keeps them at his sides. 

"Now tell me, and you can touch me wherever you want."

"Blue," Harry chokes out. He leans his head forward, and their noses brush as their foreheads press together. Louis keeps his eyes wide open. “They're always so open, and happy, and honest. They always show what you think; they get all sparkly when you laugh.” Harry takes a deep breath, and his voice lowers even further when he says, "When you're turned on, they get dark. Like now."

"I see," Louis breathes. "You can touch, but no thinking."

Harry nods, and he rolls up his hips, pressing his fingertips into the warm expanse of Louis' bare back. Louis just smirks at him, and Harry thinks he quite likes this game.

***

When they've come down and there are tissues on the ground, Harry smiles lazily at his shed's ceiling. Louis presses his nose into Harry's neck, and Harry wants to kiss him.

"Hey. Lou."

"Hey. Harry," Louis repeats in his exact tone.

"Come up here. I want to kiss you."

"How bad, though?"

Harry still hates him. 

"Really bad. So bad it hurts in my chest."

"Well I suppose I can't have you in pain then, can I?"

Success.

Louis shifts around a bit, hitches his leg a little further over Harry's lap so he's sitting in it like he has so many times before. He starts at the neck though, right where it meets Harry's shoulder, and lays the gentlest of kisses on his warm skin. Harry lets his eyes close as Louis kisses him, knowing that there's no point in whining about _where_ Louis is kissing him simply because he knows that he didn't state it first, so he could be argued against. 

It takes some time, but eventually their lips meet after Louis spends some good time on Harry's jawline. Immediately, a jolt runs through Harry, like it seems to every time Louis touches him. His hands get greedy on their own account, squeezing Louis's waist and biceps and shoulders and bum. He's breathing heavily when Louis pulls back after keeping him close, and right away he wants to whine. He does that a lot. He blames Louis. 

"What's up?" he rumbles low in his chest. 

"I'm done kissing you," Louis states, and it sounds final, and if it weren't for the glint in his eyes, Harry might've panicked. But he trusts Louis. He really, really does. 

"How come?" He pouts with his bruised, bright red lips, and he can see Louis struggling not to lean in again. 

"'Cause I want to paint you. Is that all right?" His head is cocked and his hair is falling into his eyes, and Harry thinks he might love him. He doesn't say that, though. Not yet. Love is a big, big word. He likes the word trust, because it's as honest as he can get without overcommitting, and he doesn't want to disappoint Louis after doing it too many times. 

Harry nods belatedly, taking a moment too long to think. 

"You sure?" Louis asks dubiously. 

"Positive. Whatever you want, Lou. I probably look like shit, though."

Louis furrows his brow. "I think you look beautiful." 

Harry can do nothing but smile. "You know where everything is, yeah?"

"And you'll help me if I don't," Louis singsongs, pressing a long, long kiss to Harry's cheek before swinging off of his lap. 

Louis sets up a little station in Harry's shed facing the couch where Harry still sits, and he sits and stares for quite a while. Harry flounders, unsure of what to do or how to sit. He blinks. "So, how do you want me to sit?"

"Whatever's comfortable," Louis shrugs, still looking directly at him. 

Harry shrugs back, and he sits up and folds one leg underneath his opposite thigh. His hair is in his face, but he doesn't bother to fix it. 

Louis smiles at him, soft and warm. "Perfect, love."

Harry's face gets hot.

They haven't done this before, though. They haven't painted together outside of class, and Harry wonders if it'll make some sort of difference. He doesn't think so, though. Louis is still looking at him with his honest blue eyes, and Harry doesn't feel that tightness in his chest, he doesn't feel that underlying feeling of paranoia, the skepticism, and he's not scared, either. There's only this blooming warmth that spreads from his fingertips and into his chest, where it settles. He blinks once, twice, and Louis meets his eye from where he was studying his how Harry's body is folded. The same smile as before spreads across his face, involuntary, but perfect. Harry returns in just the same way.

Louis turns around in Harry's swivel chair that he claimed as his own and turns some soft music on that Harry is too lazy to recognize, even though the melody is familiar in his ears. They don't talk while Louis paints. Harry just sneaks small smiles here and there, making sure to relax his face soon after so the painting doesn't mess up, although Harry's pretty sure Louis could paint a hummingbird as it flits from flower to flower and still have it turn out phenomenal, just in his way of seeing, of doing. 

Harry watches Louis paint. He watches the light sketch appear onto the canvas, and he watches those pencil lines shift into drastic colors and sharp shapes. Harry likes watching, though. He sees himself come alive. And Louis has this way; he draws everything in, like a lost man to his soulmate and a plant to the sun. He takes a shadow and turns even the darkest pieces of life to something bright. 

Harry admires the flick of his wrist, that special method of his that's so beautifully carefree. He sits with his leg folded and his hair in his eyes for far too long, but it doesn't feel like an eternity. He thinks that maybe, he could watch Louis forever and not get bored. It feels that way. When Louis is finally done, he just props up the painting on the easel, stands, cracks his back, wipes his hands, only to fall gracefully onto the couch, right on top of Harry. 

Harry breathes him in, and on the exhale says, "You are so amazing."

"Mmh..." Louis hums back. "I know you are."

Harry shakes his head as best he can with his face stuff into cushions and Louis on top of him. "That was weak, Lou. That was something I would say."

Louis nods, acquiesces. "I know, I know. Now don't patronize me, I gave you a compliment."

Harry sucks in a breath, and accepts it. He's been working on that, especially because Louis tends to shower him in them. He can't exactly escape them. He's starting to get the feeling that he might not want to. "Well, thank you, Lou."

Louis just mumbles something incoherent into his shoulder and touches his hair softly. So, they're getting comfortable, Harry assumes. He turns around as much as he can on the couch and weight atop him, but eventually Louis falls into his arms so they're face to face, and Harry pecks him once, twice, just because he essentially has zero self-control when it comes to Louis.

Louis keeps petting at him, scratching at his scalp, and Harry's mind starts to race like it always does. It darts here and there, stopping a little bit in the past but mostly focusing on the future. Before he can even get carried away, Louis is whispering, "Stop thinking."

So he stops. 

He doesn't know how long it is that he's been running his fingers up and down Louis' forearm, but eventually Louis speaks up again. 

"Harry, why do you like me?" He doesn't sound scared, he doesn't seem at all worried about whatever the answer is going to be, but it came up like wordvomit, Harry knows. He knows that sometimes (most of the time) Louis' filter is not all the way there, and this probably just popped up out of nowhere. It catches him off guard, regardless. 

He doesn't know how to answer. He still draws patterns up and down Louis' arm. 

"Would it be cheesy to say that you saved me?" 

Louis whispers, "Yes," and Harry laughs quietly into his skin. 

"Louis, you're- You're everything. You're everywhere. You're this light. I think you're quite literally everything I admire in a person. You are this– this positive energy and so genuine, and most of all you're an inspiration. I don't know how to thank you for everything that you've shown me about everything – myself, you, your outlook – and I don't know how to thank you in advanced for everything that you'll show me later. 

"Louis, listen. I put myself in a world of things I choose to surround myself in." There's a heavy pause, Harry breathes deep. “And I choose you, okay? I trust you." He doesn't say it, but he sure as hell thinks it; it's runs through his head over and over. 

Louis takes this shuddering breath, Harry feels it all down his spine with the goosebumps it brings. Louis presses his warm lips to Harry's for a long time, and he just stays there. He knows what it means. 

***

Louis takes him out on a "proper date" that night. Or at least, that's what he calls it. Harry breaks out his non-painted jeans, his favorite blue blazer, a crisp white shirt, and genuinely attempts to keep his hair out of his eyes. Louis knocks on his door in jeans tight enough that Harry's cheeks redden, and a shirt to match. His hands are behind his back, and he removes just one to shake Anne's hand and wave her off. He places a hand on the small of Harry's back when he walks out of his front door, and Harry wants to know what he's hiding but is also aware that if he tries, Louis will not only pout but probably won't kiss him either. 

He waits. Louis kisses him hello, light, but worth it. 

"What've you got?" he opts to ask, taking Louis' free hand and bringing them together. They stop by Louis' car, and they lean against it. 

Louis thrusts out a flower, and Harry lights up. Louis looks giddy, and Harry's smile lessens just a little when he takes it from Louis' hand. "It's plastic," he murmurs. 

And Louis leans so close. "So it won't die." And he's even closer, quieter when he says through the smallest of giggles, "Like our love." 

And Harry's not sure whether to smile or laugh or just kiss him, so he tries to do all three, and it doesn't really work but it does. 

*** 

They go to an Italian place that Harry recognizes from years ago when his mum took him out for his thirteen birthday. He remembers the few kids from school that sneered at him from where they were out with their parents who had their backs turned, and Harry remembers how skittish he was for the rest of the night, not looking up from his plate of pasta to meet eyes with his mum as they spoke about this and that, how she wouldn't stop asking what was wrong. A lot was wrong, that night. 

Harry's face falls at the memory when they walk inside, and Louis grasps his arm a little tighter and looks down at his frown. "What's wrong, love?" Louis asks. "Do you not like this place? Because there are other places we can go, if you want."

Harry shakes his head. "No," he breaths. "No, it's all right. Here's fine. The food's nice. Pretty lights, too. Lots of, erm, ambiance."

Louis chuckles lightly. "Whatever you say, darling. If something's wrong just say the word."

"It's always perfect with you," Harry blurts, and Louis rolls his eyes fondly and whispers something about him being cheesy under his breath. Whatever. It's true. Louis kisses his cheek and they wait for the hostess to return from helping the last guest.

"Hey there guys! Just two?" Louis nods. "Do you have a reservation?" 

Louis nods again. "Under Tomlinson."

She types a few things into the computer, flicks her long, pin straight hair over her shoulder, sends them a soft smile, and leads them to the very back of the restaurant. "Enjoy your meal, you two. A server should be over in just a few minutes."

"Thank you," Louis beams, and he pulls out a chair for Harry (to which he receives a heavy blush) before sitting in his own. "All right?" Louis asks when they're alone. There are only empty tables around them, and they’re nestled in a comfortable corner, pressed against the soft creme walls of the restaurant. Lights are strung from the ceiling in little brown lanterns, and there are artful paintings on the walls that aren't quite either of their styles, but manage to make the setting warmer. There's soft acoustic music playing, and Harry smiles when he recognizes a song. 

Louis leans forward for just a second to brush his thumb over Harry's hand, and Harry just holds his gaze, feels his cheeks warm, and brushes the inside of Louis' wrist before pulling back and looking at the menu. 

By the time they've ordered dinner, they really haven't said much, only sneaked glances and touched here and there. Louis won't stop staring at Harry. 

"What?" Harry murmurs, and his voice is quiet, and his smile is spilling into it. 

"Nothing," Louis says coyly, blinking a few times. 

"Don't pull that. What?"

"You're just gorgeous."

Harry chuckles bashfully, blushes for the umpteenth time. "Seducing me so you can take me back to my shed and have your wicked way?"

"I was actually just speaking my mind, but if calling you pretty will get you to suck me off again..." Louis trails off, grinning from ear to ear. 

"You bloody arse, we're supposed to be having a romantic dinner!" Harry exclaims.

"Excuse me, I was just calling you beautiful and you brought up sex. I was only going along with the given topic."

Harry just smiles at Louis again. There's a few beats of silence, and then it's eating way at Harry's skin, nipping at his tongue, stinging his lips. Harry hates these words. He hates them because he doesn't know them. He'll tell his mum because she's his closest confident, Niall because he's his closest companion, and Gemma because she's his biggest fan. He's going to tell Louis because it's true, because he deserves to hear it.

"Louis," Harry murmurs. "Give me your hand."

Louis smiles crookedly at him but stretches his palm out, taking a sip from his water with his free hand. Harry folds their fingers together and lets them rest on the top of the table, and he thinks about how a few months ago, even a few weeks ago, that he would've worried about a million things with their fingers on top of a table. 

Harry squeezes his fingers. "You're the greatest person I've ever met, y'know?" he starts, fumbling and awkward but, it's expected, a little. Louis' lip quirks, but he doesn't interrupt. Harry can practically see the comment that he wants to spew out right now, and Harry loves that. Harry loves that he can tell, that he can read Louis. He loves how close they've become, that Harry allowed himself. So that's where he starts. "I can see that you want to say something right now, Lou."

Louis chuckles. "Can you now?"

"Mmh, and it's just. I am just grateful for you, and having you always, and god I sound stupid, so really what I'm trying to say is that I - I love you, yeah?" Harry heaves a big breath. "I love you." 

There. He said it. It's out and done with, and he meant it. 

Louis leans across the table to smack the biggest kiss on his lips because he even know what's hitting him. It doesn't last for more than a few seconds, 

"I love you too, you bloody sap. Now, I'll tell you again in a minute, but through a mouthful of ravioli because the food's here."

Harry laughs and blushes and this is the best dinner of his life. 

***

On the way home, rain patters on the window shield. Louis scoffs loudly. 

"Oil paints win, Harry, hands down."

"How can you say that though? You're such a loose painter, and you hate watercolors? That makes absolutely zero sense." Harry folds his arms, but Louis tugs at him with his free hand, and Harry relents because his hands are cold, but mostly because he's fairly smitten with this boy. 

"It makes loads of sense. I like to take the medium that's usually so structured, and turn it into something else entirely. I twist oil paints into whatever I want. It's the best part about it." 

Okay. Maybe that does make sense. Harry's lip twitches with defeat and he knows Louis can tell.

So he says, "So can we agree that chalk pastels are fun?"

Louis lets a smiles spread across his face, slow like a flower blooming, but just as radiant. "Yes, we can."

When they pull up to Harry's driveway, Harry turns the car off for Louis, and he eyes the shed.

"You're coming, Lou."

"I know."

"We're gonna get wet."

"I know."

"Are we going?"

"Yes."

So they run out of the car and into the pouring rain, and by the time they make it past the fence and underneath the ivy, they're soaked through their clothes and they're laughing at the top of their lungs. 

Harry gets this rush. "Hey, Louis!"

"Yeah, Harry?"

“I love you!”

Louis answers with his mouth, with his hands on Harry's hips, and with the way  they fit together and the warmth that it leaves running through Harry's body.  

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments mean a million, as always!!! (also im thirsty for them)


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I EMOTIONAL OH MY GOD. THIS IS JUST A QUICK LIL THING TO WRAP IT UP BUT I CANT BELIEVE IT'S THE END OMG. I HOPE YOU ENJOY AS ALWAYS!!

Harry’s head is back and he’s fighting the urge to close his eyes. There’s a warmth blooming somewhere on his body, but he can’t say just where. His neck, maybe. Or his collarbones. Maybe his hip or his lips or the spot right behind his ear. Maybe it’s everywhere; chasing him, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake, illuminating orangey-gold, soft but hot. A gentle kind of burn. Harry wants to stop and let it catch up to him. 

There’s a constant searing on his wrist, and it’s pressing into his skin, blissfully scorching. Harry lets his eyes flutter shut but immediately snaps them back open, meeting a blue that should put out the fire but is really the one starting it. 

“Lou,” he chokes out. “I don’t want it to end – I don’t want it to be over.”

There’s a voice close to his ear, on the spot, right behind it. “It’s okay, Harry. We can do it again and again and again.” Harry’s free hand that doesn’t have fingers looping his wrist fists in the sheets. His brow loses its furrow when Louis trails his lips down his neck, sparks brightening him. “You’re okay, love. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry manages, throat burning as much as his wrist, throaty and raw but feeling so good. It’s the most wonderful kind of exposed. Louis is still running his hands along Harry’s body, and Harry bucks his hips back against Louis’. “Please,” he whispers. “Lou, I’m–”

“Go on, lovely. And we can do it again later. Better and longer and everything you need.”

“It burns so nice, Lou. I’m on fire because of you.”

Louis keeps his lips against Harry’s neck and gets a hand around his cock, and suddenly Harry can’t think anymore. He can’t speak or move or do anything but feel the burn on his wrist and in the pit of his stomach. He comes across Louis’ hand, and then Louis is resting his head in the crook of his neck and biting a bit. His hips stop. They breathe. 

Harry feels loved, feels warm. The burn is slowing and their fingers are tangling together as Louis pulls out. His head stays in that same place, that nice little nook, and Harry likes the presence it gives him, a gentle awareness as he floats sleepily, a pleasant warmth rocking his whole body as Louis curls next to him. 

“You all right, darling? Was that good for you?” Louis checks, because that’s a thing he does. He checks in from time to time, and Harry loves that. It gives him a sense of security, something to help his feet stay touching the ground. 

Because Harry still has nightmares, and he’ll wake up at three in the morning in a cold sweat with wide eyes. Louis, though, he’s either right by his side or a phone call away, like the little weight they attach to the bottom of balloons so they don’t drift away. 

Because Harry still has panic attacks, thoughts of how everything and everyone is going to leave him alone, how he’s going to wind up like the empty can left on the beach or the ship with too many holes to float. Sometimes, he still feels how he’s felt for so long, but Louis tells him. 

He says, “Things change, Harry. You know. I know. We change, but we grow, too. Life never stops, but love doesn’t die, darling.”

He doesn’t sugarcoat, though. He doesn’t lie. His eyes sparkle with the light of a million stars and the spark that he leaves on Harry’s skin. “Even though humans are creatures of betrayal and we constantly, constantly thirst to have what’s best, if there’s something worth staying for, they will. And you are, and I am. I’m staying, Harry.”

His feet are flat on the dirt even as he lies horizontally as his fingers are played with by Louis, sated and warm and a little messy as they breathe, so he says, “I love you,” because he doesn’t know what else to put out there with a hazy mind and so overwhelmed with it. 

Louis laughs softly, quiet and soothing like a music box, but lets go of Harry’s hand and sits up. “I love you, too. So much that I’m gonna clean us up now so we can go sleep outside.” He wiggles his slightly gross fingers and Harry laughs like the wind chime that Louis made him out of spoons and forks last week, echoing and melodic. 

Louis gets him a flannel and they wash up a bit, putting on too-big soft shirts and worn out pajama pants. They take too many blankets and warm mugs of tea from the kitchen and sprawl out on the grass, ignoring the fact that they’re going to wake up in dew the next morning and staring up at the blissfully cloudless night. The stars are out, twinkling at Harry like Louis’ eyes. 

“Can I paint your hands tomorrow?”

Louis looks down at his own tiny fists confusedly. “Sure? I mean I might want to put on a bracelet or something, y’know, to spice it up–”

Harry cuts him off with a laugh. “No spicing. That’s not what I meant.”

Louis just raises his eyebrows and waits for an explanation. “Like– I want to take some acrylics and _paint_ on your hands. And you can do me–” 

“I believe I just accomplished that, sir,” Louis interrupts with a snort. Harry ignores him but smiles nonetheless. 

“–because of that wall in the shed. I’ve always thought, like. Well, not always. But recently I’ve been thinking that it’s so empty? I mean it’s just a cream color and I have a few paintings up there, but I really want to put our hand prints there. With the date and stuff. Does that sound okay?”

Louis shifts under their blanket mound, pins Harry beneath him and kisses him silly. (Messily, too, might Harry add.) Louis pulls away, leaving a breathless Harry. “I am so in love with you,” Louis mutters. He sounds almost incredulous. “And I am so proud of you. Tomorrow we’re eating the dead chicken in your fridge for breakfast.”

Okay.

The stars wink at him. Or maybe it’s Louis, who knows.

***

The next morning, they eat cold chicken for breakfast and it tastes weird with their tea. Their blankets and sweats are damp from the dew, but it’s warm out and comfortable. It’s still before noon when they make it into the shed, and Harry pulls out his acrylics and clears the oils he left out the other day. Louis insists he go first, so he pulls out an average sized brush and looks down at his colors. 

He pours a little bit of everything onto a palette and mixes brights, for Louis. He gets a coral and a turquoise and a gold and a deep pink and fades them into each other on his left hand. On his right, he paints it all black except for a splat of royal blue in the middle. Louis takes both palms and pushes them right up to the wall, and well. There’s no going back now. It takes Harry’s breath away for a second or maybe five, but it works. His hands are on Harry’s wall and it’s beautiful. He uses the turquoise he mixed and writes _lou’s palms_ and the date next to it. 

“Would you like my autograph as well?” Louis teases.

Harry scowls. “You won’t be famous till you die, Louis. Don’t you know anything about art?” Louis laughs loudly. “Besides, you’re writing beneath my hands.”

“I suppose I should have at that, shouldn’t I?” Louis asks. 

Harry just nods and folds his palms face up for Louis to work on. The brush tickles his skin as Louis paints one hand an array of yellows and the other a mixtures of blues. He stares down at his hands. Complimentary, complete opposites. He then proceeds to slap his hands onto the wall and then directly onto Louis’ face, squishing his cheeks a little bit. 

Louis gapes at him. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Harry says. 

“You _didn’t,_ ” Louis repeats. 

“Oh,” he says, “but I _did._ ”

Louis’ acrylic covered hands are dry now, but he places his hand right on the palette, in every color, and then runs it right down Harry’s face. 

“You’re such a wanker!” Harry exclaims. 

“You started it, twat,” Louis growls, but he’s grinning. 

They flick paint at each other and all over their big shirts and kind of clean sweats, arms and hands and faces covered until the palette is empty. They’re laughing so hard by the time it’s all over that they’re having trouble breathing. After it looks like Louis’s done recovering, he takes a brush and runs it through an impressive glob of green on Harry’s arm, and he writes _harry’s handy hands_ under the prints on the wall. 

“Alliteration!” he chirps quietly. Harry laughs at him, but sees that Louis is still writing, dabbing at the aqua on his cheek. Slowly, two little arrows form beneath “lou” and “harry” and he puts a plus sign between the marks. Beneath it, he writes, _love each other and need a wash._ Harry smiles embarrassingly big, grin stretching across his face in the way that almost hurts. “I figured that will probably always be relevant. At least half will.”

Harry didn’t think he could smile wider. 

There’s paint on his wall, and there’s paint in his hair and on his face and shirt, and he isn’t bothered at all. 

“Which half?” Harry asks coyly, and Louis punches his arm. 

Being in love feels a lot like letting loose, and if this is loose, he’d hang from the sky by a single thread. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That's it then. I probably won't do another chaptered fic for a while because I feel like they're just an obligation I don't need on my shoulders, but I've got a ton of oneshots planned. I hope you liked it, and enjoyed this little rollercoaster of emotions with baby Harry getting worse and better. I love every one of you who even clicked on the page. Kudos and comments mean the world to me!


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